The Hungry Homicide
by Accio Insanity
Summary: Sherlock and John are in the middle of a case with murderers who've targeted women and their stomachs. - From John's point of view. Also: don't panic about the amount of chapters because they're all really short. An a warning on grammar too, I write this in class or late at night so occasionally I will right the wrong word because I'm rushing or mostly asleep.
1. Waking Up

1

"Look at her, really look at her." Sherlock's lips are so close to my ear that they send shivers down my spine.

I look at her; she's face down in the water with a small amount of bruising around her neck. She could have been strangled but I suppose that would be too simple for Sherlock. But I saw it anyway, "She's been strangled."

"Wrong. Look again," his fingers trail up my spine.

"I am looking Sherlock," my patience is too low for this nonsense so I spin on my heel to face Sherlock. I gaze up into his face; curls of jet black hair tumble delicately down his forehead to his grey-blue eyes that are simultaneously soft and cold in an eerie and slightly unsettling way.

He's so close that I can just about feel his breath on my face, "I know, it's okay" that's different, he actually sounds… nice. And then his hand, with its long slender fingers, cups around my cheek and his thumb caresses the skin beneath it. I blink to bring his pale face back into focus. "Sherlock," I manage to mumble through the lump that has quickly blocked my throat.

"Shhhh," his lips twitch a little and then they are all that I can see. All that exists is his lips and mine. And they're getting closer and closer and time is ticking in slow motion. He's so close I can feel his breath and almost feel his lips.

And then I wake with a start with the morning news blaring through the alarm clock radio. I involuntarily let out a frustrated moan and drag myself out of my cocoon of comfort and warmth into the uncomfortable tepidness warmth of the room. I slip on a pair of clean trousers but the only shirt in the room has been there for a few weeks now, I decide to go bare chested into the wilderness of the probably trashed apartment.

Sherlock was already awake; or had probably never gone to sleep, they were in the middle of a case after all. His feet hit the floorboards heavily as he paced the kitchen restlessly, still completely oblivious to the fact that I have a crush on him. "I asked for your laptop an hour ago."

"You usually just get it yourself," this was strange, Sherlock being polite and Sherlock being nice in the dream. Perhaps it wasn't a dream but I was sure he'd remember his first kiss from a man.

"Yes, well, it was over there," Sherlock cast a finger in the direction of the lounge room.

I had given up questioning Sherlock's laziness or the fact that he never used his own laptop when he could just mine. I merely sighed heavily, know he'd ignore it, and pushed past him to the fridge. I scan it twice, "I guess I'm having black coffee again."

"You should really buy some milk," I hear Sherlock's flat voice from over my shoulder.

"I have been asking you to get some for the past two weeks," I sigh as I push past him again, avoiding eye contact and physical contact and take hold of the kettle. I turn again to scold him for not getting milk once again but he's gone. To get my laptop I suppose.

I continue to assemble a breakfast and finally join him in the living room where he sits in the middle of the couch, my laptop balanced on one knee and his on the other. Again, I don't question it.

I fall back in my chair and take my first sip of the too bitter coffee while I keep my eyes trained on him. I don't think I've seen the body in my dream before, so it couldn't have been real. I let myself relax into the knowledge that I had not kissed Sherlock and nobody knew of my true sexuality or my crippling crush on my flatmate.

"There's been another body found," Sherlock says, but he doesn't take his eyes of the screens before him, "We need to get a closer look."

"I haven't eaten-" But he's already on his feet and slipping on his coat.

"Do hurry John," and he leaves me alone in the room.

I scoff down the last of my toast and take a final swig of my coffee, I let myself wince at the bitterness this time, and join him on the street. He waves his hand in the air and then, almost like magic, a cab pulls to the curb. We climb in. "Trafalgar Square," he tells the driver.

"It's been closed off to the public for today, some major emergency," he says tapping the wheel with his thumb.

"Take us anyway," Sherlock hisses.

I decide that it's time for me to intervene before the cabbie burst into tears under Sherlock's pressure. "Just take us as close as you can."

"John," Sherlock whines but he sits back into his seat when the cabbie nods and accelerates.

A couple of minutes and the cab driver pulls up to the curb again, "They're not gonna let you in," he warns.

"Thank you very much for your service," Sherlock says sarcastically, tossing him a few coins from his pocket and pushing himself out of the cab. "Come along John."

I hesitate and throw some extra coins to the cabbie, "sorry" I mouth before I climb out, "Sherlock, wait," He's already half way down the street from me and walking at a fast pace. I'll never catch up with those long legs. "Sherlock!"

I arrive at the temporary fence puffing and panting and my face probably more red than a tomato. "Sherlock," I gasp again.

He's standing looking down at me from the other side of the fence with a steady breath. He pushes a section of the fence to allow room for me to squeeze through, knowing him he probably jumped it. Although with those legs he could probably just about step over it. "Hurry up, everyone else is here."

We walk slowly over towards the group of police in the centre of the square. Lestrade is the first person I see and then Anderson, Sherlock won't be too happy about that. "Morning, Greg," I mutter, still trying to catch my breath.

"No time for chatting, John." Sherlock waves me over to the edge of the fountain. When I pass the group of police I get a clear view of a familiar scene. Sherlock is squatting next to a woman who is lying face down into the pavement. He's observing every inch of her with his magnifying glass; from her clothes to her finely painted fingernails. Apparently he's looked at her for long enough because he stands and strides behind me. "Your turn," his voice is soft now. "Look at her."

I look down at the woman; her hair is tied in a ponytail but it's come loose and fallen to the side of her head messily, she's wearing a thick woollen jumper and looks like any regular woman except for one thing, she has bruises around her neck. Bruises. An image flashes back into my head from the depth of my memory; I've seen this woman before. In my dream. I know it's not right but I say, "She's been strangled," anyway.

"Wrong. Look again," he's reciting my dream word for word. I feel him step closer to me and press his hand to my spine.

I shiver involuntarily at his touch so I force myself to jump forward, "I am looking." And then I do it, I turn to face him, like in my dream, and his face is so close to mine that I could reach up and kiss him. But I resist the urge and bite my lip instead.

"You're looking but you're no observing," he spins me around to face the woman again. I left myself sigh of relief. As much as I wanted that kiss, I wasn't ready for it and I didn't want to come out to everybody I know at the same time. I look at the woman again. I open my mind and crouch down to her. Her clothes are wet. I touch her back and then slide my hand under her belly. She's not damp from dew or rain; for one it hasn't rained in a few days and two, if it were dew, it would only be on the upper side of her body. I look to the left of her, she's on the very edge of the fountain, "she could have drowned, I guess."

"Guessing is not good," Sherlock says as he joins me on the ground, "but you're right." I feel my heart flutter and I lean towards Sherlock slightly. "She was attacked. Look at her hair, there's at least 11 pins in there, she would never leave her hair in a mess."

"Alcohol?" I suggest.

"Possibly, but I'd say someone grabbed her by her hair, look at how far the hair tie has been pulled down. And the strangle marks and the bruise on her eye are clear giveaways but not the cause of death." He stands and walks a few paces away, "John stand here and face the fountain," I do as I'm told without a word. "She was standing or walking somewhere by the fountain, the attacker came from behind and grabbed her by the hair," He grabs onto my shoulder and starts dragging me towards the fountain, "she was pushed back against the fountain and judging by the traces of blood under her finger nails, she tried to fight back and she got a punch to the side of the head." He mimes punching me and I automatically step back, falling against the edge of the fountain. "The attacked strangled her," his slender fingers wrap around my neck and I shiver again, "until she passes out and he dumps her in the water."

"But she's not in the water now," I say as I unlatch his fingers from my neck.

"Yes," he looks around the group of policemen, "who moved her?"

"A small patrol of policemen discovered her about an hour ago on their morning sweep for drunks," Lestrade answers.

"Get to the point," Sherlock hisses.

"They found her as she is now, out the ground, not in the water."

He lets me go so suddenly that I stumble backwards onto the edge of the fountain and sets to pacing around the body. "Why would they move the body after she died? Why?" His hands fly to his temples, "Anderson."

"Yes."

"Go back to the office and get me-" Anderson's face has lit up at the thought of Sherlock needing his help, "Oh don't look so happy, go back the office and get John and I some coffee, I can't stand you hanging around."

He grumbles and looks to Lestrade for help but Lestrade nods at him impatiently and he leaves. Not even a second after Anderson has exited the area Sherlock lets out a triumphant, "oh!"

"What?" I say, although he doesn't need the encouragement anyway, he'll take any chance to show off that he's a genius.

"She wasn't killed here," he looks far too happy about this revelation.

"What?" I repeat.

"She was killed elsewhere and they were moving her to the fountain to try and cover it up, make it look like she's a drunk who drowned in the fountain after deciding to take a swim. Look at the pull on her jumper. It's pulled tight on the side closest to the fountain and trailing out on the other. It's obvious she was dragged here…"

"And how would you know this?" One of the other, younger policemen who I've never seen before ask.

Before Sherlock can even open his mouth, Lestrade is scolding him, "I know what you're thinking and don't. He's not a suspect."

"You can leave too, help Anderson with the coffee; it's a hard task for humans with brains as small as yours."

"You said the last one wasn't killed where we found her either," I say trying to restore some order.

"Yes, I did say that. John you are the only one with sense here." I'm so grateful that he's eyeing off the group of police and not looking in my direction because I can feel my face going red and the most idiotic smile on my lips from his praise. I look down at the body and sober myself as best I can. "The other was moved too," he turns back to the body, "She died in almost exactly the same way."

"Almost?"

"The other had a fresh scar that had been stitched up on her stomach. I obviously haven't checked this one yet." He pushes past me, back to the woman and pulls her onto her back. Without a moment's hesitation, he lifts her shirt. "It's the same people. The scars are the same."


	2. To the Morgue

"We're done," he says with one more scan over the woman's body. "Bring her to the morgue and put her in the draw next to the other woman."

Without another word he strides back towards the fence. I follow, as always. "Uhh, thanks," I quickly add before running after him.

Sherlock waits and holds the gate open for me which makes me blush. We're already making our way towards the main street when Anderson returns with the young officer and 8 coffees.

"Nice to see you've found your true calling, Anderson," Sherlock says bluntly without even slowing his step.

"Thank you," I say trying to sound empathetic while I take two of the coffees from his hands. He simply looks at me with bewildered eyes.

Sherlock already has a cab waiting for us. Surprised that he'd waited for me twice in the past 5 minutes, I hopped in and handed him a steaming coffee.

"I wanted black," he murmurs into the cup.

I look down into my dark coffee, "oh here, wrong one."

I wait for him to call me an idiot for mixing the coffees up but he does something so surprising that I almost spill my coffee down my front, he says, "Everybody makes mistakes, John. Thanks," and he smiles a genuine smile.

He leans forwards and tells the cab driver, "221 Baker Street."

"Home? I thought we were heading over to the morgue."

"No, we can go later. I need to pick up some things."

We don't speak to each other the entire ride home but my wind it full with thoughts that Sherlock would deem useless. Thoughts about his kindness towards me all of today. Thoughts of the dream I'd had that night. And of how the woman we'd found today was the same woman. And how there was a tickling feeling in my belly, that still stirs deep inside me, when he whispered in my ear. I clear my throat.

The cab pulls up at the curb outside our flat and I pass the driver some coins, in stark contrast with the rushed tossing of coins at the last cabbie. Sherlock, of course, is already fumbling with keys at the door and by the time I reach him the cab is rolling away. The door creaks open and Sherlock strides up into our flat.

When I enter the apartment, Sherlock is already in his room no doubt searching for whatever he needed. I settle down on the couch and nurse my coffee as I wait.

As I'm draining the last sip of my coffee a loud crashing noise comes from Sherlock's room followed closely by cursing. "Sherlock, you okay?" I dump my empty coffee cup in the kitchen and stand outside his door, "Sherlock?"

There's no answer so I push on the door which for once isn't locked.

I survey the room, expecting some kind of disaster with Sherlock on the floor, trapped under a bookshelf and injured but no, Sherlock his crouched on his bed, head in his hands with the floor covered in glass.

"Sherlock what happened? Did you get hit by the glass?"

He looks up, obviously hearing my distress at the situation. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen but not in a way that suggests they have something in them, but in a way that suggests that he is crying. His buries his head in his hands again without a sound.

My eyes dart around the room again. Books are strewn about his room; they cover the floor, they hang from the windowsill and they clutter his desk. I haven't been in this room since I dragged him in here after the Irene Adler drugged him and it was considerably tidier at that point. I flick the light switch and flood the room with light, each sliver of glass glinting up at me. I look to the source of the glass, what used to be a tall wooden lamp frame is now dinted and cracked to the point where chunks of it fall to from the mass revealing that the frame was made from simple stained plywood, not an expensive wood as I'd always thought. I scan the floor again and this time notice splinters in amongst the glass shards.

I carefully weave my way across the carpet to Sherlock's bed. I smooth the grey covers and invite myself to sit.

"Sherlock," I say softly, "You can talk to me."

"No," he says as stubbornly as a child.

Everyone knew he had the emotions of a five year old; in that he didn't understand how to react or act and he didn't fully understand love or grief. Most people can't handle him, can't stand him. And those people, and more, tell me that I am one of the few who can force him to connect with his human feelings. Molly and I, we're the only one's really.

I try again, this time patting his knee, "You can talk to me."

He mumbles something into his chest that I cannot hear.

I reach out and touch a soft curl in his hair. I watch as it bounces back to neatness and perfection. I watch as his back rises as he fills his lungs with air and lets in out as a long sigh. I stop thinking with his reaction to my touch and slide my hand through his hair until it reaches his ear. Without even considering the consequences I trace my fingers along his sharp jawline and lift his chin from his knees. He drops his hands and I'm left staring into red and swollen eyes.

"John," he says, or at least I think he says. I can't hear him; my mind is on his lips along with my eyes, my eyes that search every crack and crevasse in his lips. God, I want to touch them with my own, even just a touch. "John," his lips say again.

I bring myself back from longing with a violent jolt. I try to speak but all I can manage is to splutter his name.

"I had a dream last night… about you."

And that really brings me down from my high. My cloud of happiness turns to rain and I fall rapidly with it. "Oh?" I say trying to sound interested but probably sounding more like how I feel, dreadful. I try to stop myself but my lips have said it before I can do it, "what was it about?"

I take my hand back from his jaw to let him speak. "You were in it." His Adam's apple bulges as he swallows. "It was wrong," he starts to sob. Sherlock Holmes, the man with no emotion, sobbing.

"It was a nightmare," I say, comforting myself more than him. He nods ever so slightly and I stand from the bed in an attempt to escape.

"Stay with me John?"

It's quiet but I hear it and I ignore it, sinking to a level of heartlessness I never knew I had. "I'll get the broom." Another mistake, I know it as soon as I leave the room. I'm alone with my thoughts. What if we had the same dream and he thinks it's a nightmare and I thought it was the best dream in my life? I mean, I woke up feeling pretty good with the sensation of him kissing me; it went to hell after that but what if he dreamt that I kissed him and thought it was terrible? I try to banish the 'what ifs' from my mind and focus on my search for a broom.

By the time I get back Sherlock is twisting a scarf around his neck at the front door. "I'm going down to the morgue. You can join me when you want to," he mentions as I walk past him.

"You're not going to wait," I say, looking back to see that he has already left for the street.

Oh great, time to mull over my thoughts on my own for a while. I make to sweep his room. Not planning to join him at the morgue anytime soon, I take my time to clean. I dare not touch his books but it gets to the point where I have to. Something tells me I'll hear about this later.

I sweep the last of the last of the glass and wood into the dustpan and empty it into the bin in the kitchen. I suppose I'd better make my way to the morgue, He'll be asking me for a pen no doubt.

I spend 10 minutes out on the street before a cab finally stops for me, I obviously do not have Sherlock's skill. I tell him where to go and sit back into the seat. He takes the long way round, which doesn't improve my mood, and by the time he pulls up, Sherlock could have been there for half an hour at least.

I wander in the doors and make my way down the familiar halls, down the stairs and into the room where the bodies are usually displayed. I come face to face with Molly.

She's bouncy as usual and bustling around preparing bodies and organising papers. "Hey, John," she chirps, "Sherlock coming down soon?"

"I thought he was already here?"

"No, he called a few minutes ago telling we to make sure the women were ready for examination," she stops bouncing and her thin lips fall into a saddened crescent.

"Oh, that's okay then." I hope.

"Coffee?" Molly chirps again.

"No, I've already had my share for the moment, I'll go up and grab you one if you would like."

She's already taking a step towards the door, "Come with me."

We walk side by side and catch the elevator up to the cafeteria where I end up buying both Molly and I a coffee each. We sit at the end of the cafeteria, away from everybody else.

"Molly, has Sherlock been upset in the past few days?" I finally ask.

Her eyes make contact with mine, she knows something. "He- he told me not to tell you."

"I'm worried about him."

She bites her lip. "I'm not supposed to-" she hesitated and starts again, "He told me he was having dreams, nightmares. And if something scares Sherlock, it must be really serious."

"Do you know what they were about?"

She bites her lip again, harder this time so that when she releases it, there is a little white line and an indentation from her teeth. "I shouldn't say."

"I can't ask him. He won't tell me."

"What won't I tell you?" Sherlock's deep voice sounded from behind me.

"Never mind," I say quickly. 'Where have you been?"

"Library," he says bluntly, he turns to Molly now, "Have you got the bodies ready?"

"Yes," Molly squeaks. She stands abruptly and skips out of the Cafeteria with Sherlock by her side.

4


	3. Stitches

Sherlock has a scalpel now, opening up the messy stitches on the bodies. I know better than anyone in this room the effect of unclean wounds and unsterilized tools. I can see, even from the wall of the room that they've been stitched up by armatures.

"John, take a look at the stitches before I take them out."

I step forward as summoned and take a close look at their job. "Well, they were armatures, I know that. They used a thick needle and this twine is just household stuff, fishing wire even. They've no doubt used a sewing needle not a stitching needle. They don't seem to have infection though, yet, but they have had the cuts for a little while, this one's closed up a bit." I take a breath because I notice something that I wish I hadn't. "They weren't under anaesthetic so they've been cut open while they were still feeling I'm guessing."

Sherlock has an eyebrow raised, "And how do you know that?"

I breathe again, dragging my eyes back to the stitches, "because they struggled. These marks," I wave my finger over the entry point of each stitch, "Are from violent pulling, not just a particularly rough tug from the stitcher, but from jerking of the whole body."

He's laughing his dry laugh, "Excellent John!"

He only laughs when I've done something idiotic, "What did I get wrong?" he'll probably say something along the lines of, 'it would be more efficient to tell you what you got right' followed closely by a 'nothing'.

"Everything, John, everything," he's laughing, sounding genuinely excited. I look up into his face, his smiling face. "I'm proud of you."

A curl falls over his eyes and I raise my hand to push it from his face. I catch myself before I can ruin my status of a straight man and place my hand on his shoulder, softly pushing him away.

Both Sherlock and I look to Molly for help, or at least I do, but she's just looking back at us grinning like her best dreams had come true. Dreams. I better mention it now before the subject changes again.

I look back up to him and take my hand from his shoulder. "Uhh Sherlock, Molly told me that you had a nightmare."

"I'll leave you two alone for a little bit. I have things to attend to," she stutters and rushes out of the room.

It feels like we're alone in the world again. "I did.""

"Do you want to tell me what it was about."

"No," he says but he doesn't turn away this time and keeps his eyes locked on mine.

"I can help you Sherlock, you just have to tell me." He doesn't look away but he doesn't speak either. "Fine, don't help yourself. I'm going."

I'm halfway out the door when he says, "I thought I lost you."

I jump at his voice "What?"

"Oh, you heard," he snaps in his impatient, whining puppy voice.

"I want you to repeat it, Sherlock," I reply more sternly.

"I thought I lost you," he repeats.

I step towards him, he does the same. "Lost as in how?" I ask taking another step.

"It doesn't matter now." He steps back this time, obviously changing his mind about entering into this conversation.

"It does matter, your room proved that and the fact that you never sleep."

"I'm afraid of the dreams."

And then it hit me, Sherlock was human. Sure, it seems silly but at times I couldn't be sure. At times he lacked everything that a human possessed, mostly feelings. He had a fear. No wonder he hardly ever sleeps.

And then another thought hits me and my eyes water in concern, "When was the last time you slept?"

"I sleep most nights."

I step forward and he steps back, bumping into the trolley with the first woman's body still in its bag on top of it. The trolled rolls a little as Sherlock take another step back.

"For how long?"

"For the last few nights, an hour."

"An hour!" I step forward and few paces and he mirrors my movements until he hits the back bench. "That's not enough, Sherlock, you know that."

"I'm done talking," he says and he tries to push past me but without thinking I pin him to the bench with my hands on each wrist. He struggles a little so I push my hips in towards his, pinning his whole body down.

"You're hurting me John," he whimpers.

I barely hear him through my quickening breath and I let myself gaze up into his face again. As look as my eyes lock with his perfect eyes I know it's a mistake. I jump back and apologise profusely.

"Quite alright, John. You're worried, I know." He says rubbing at his wrists and turning back to the bench to grab the scalpel again. "I'm going to open up this woman first," he says gesturing to the woman that we found two nights ago, "I'd like you to observe."

"I know how to stitch and unstitch," I say more grumpily than I'd intended to.

Sherlock ignores my comment completely, back to his emotionless state in a flash. There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach that feel like someone has stabbed me and then released a ferret into my stomach to run around and tickle my innards. I take a guess that it might be because I just saw Sherlock as a human, a real human with real emotions, and now he's a brick wall again.

He twirls the scalpel in his fingers to reposition it and leans down to pick at the first stitch. Not long and he's opened up the wound and pinned it open. I peer over as he scans his magnifying glass over it. It takes a swab from the table and rubs it around the open wound. While he looks at the sample under the microscope, I take a look at the wound.

It's pink, like any other wound and definitely fresh for it doesn't show any signs of healing. It's deep too, maybe even deeper than any wound I ever saw in war but not likely.

"The cut, contrasting to the stitching, it precision and neat," Sherlock announces.

"They knew what they were doing here," I say coming to my conclusion.

"No, they were careful."

I look into the wound again. "What makes you say that?"

"The incision point is more of a stab than an incision. It's much deeper than the rest of the wound indicating that they thrust the blade inwards and then slowly cut downwards. I also know they used a knife. It's obvious from the sewing needle and the slight jaggedness of the incision."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd they cut into them?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me." I invite him to wave his intelligence over me.

"They were getting something out, John. Something that needed to be taken out carefully." He grabs my arm and yanks me closer, "Look at the wound, not just the exposed flesh but everywhere."

He holds me tightly, forcing me closer. I look but only see what I saw before. "I don't understand."

He sighs and pulls me over to the woman we found this morning, "It's easier to see on this one," he growls.

I gaze at the scar but as far as I can see it's still the same shoddy stitching job.

Sherlock has lost his patience with me and he releases me from his grip.

"The women haven't been opened up just this once. There, just to the left of the stitching and the new incision and extending just above and below is an old scar. The old scars on both women have got to be a year old, if not more. And if I'm right, which I always am, this means that they were taking something valuable out."

"So the first time they put something into the flesh and now they've retrieved it. Some sort of safe keeping?"

"Well I actually have two conclusions as of now. The women were either, as you said, a hiding place to transport goods from one place to another. If not, it was a secret bond of a cult and in leaving it means the bond is broken and therefore removed. Either way, yes, it is a sort of safe keeping."

It's the first time Sherlock's mind has done a loop and come back to the original point that was made by someone that wasn't him. He concluded that I was right. This is new and strangely exciting.

3


	4. Pestering

As soon as we enter the flat, I am back to pestering Sherlock about the dream for information.

"I already told you, I had a dream about losing you."

"Losing me how?"

"It's none of your business."

"It is if you destroy the flat like you destroyed your own room."

"I'll confine it to my room then." He fidgets in his chair, eyes darting and searching for some form escape. I know this look from my endless supply of failed dates.

"That's not the point, Sherlock. The point is that you're hurting yourself both psychologically and physically."

"I'm fine," he stands up, finding an escape.

"Sit." He obeys. "Sherlock, you need to talk to someone about this."

"I've talked to Molly."

"But she can only look after you when you're at the lab or in the morgue. I am with you at just about every hour of the day."

"You can't help me."

"Don't push me away, Sherlock," I try say softly but end up snapping. We're both silent for a minute which he stares me down and I search him for answers. Too bad I'm not a psychopath like him. I groan, "I'm not going to be affected by your dream, Sherlock. I'm not going to die because you told me."

"Yes, but all you idiots end up doing the thing to get you killed anyway"

I slap my thighs and stand, "well, I've had just about enough of this. God, you're like a child." I move for the door and turn back just before I reach it, "I'll be out for a while. Grow up while I'm out."

Sherlock just watches me silently as I leave.

I end up at the nearest pub. I'm on my second heavy beer when I young man sits on the stool next to me at the bar. He's got to be only 25 years old, barely old enough to drink but he already smells of beer.

"I'm Chris," he announces and holds out his hand.

I take it and reply, "John."

We shake hands for a long awkward moment before he withdraws. "So, what do you do for a living?"

He's a little awkward but nice. I scan over his face and hair. He's fairly attractive too; brown hair that curls just a little less than Sherlock's, glowing green eyes, a thin face with obvious lines. Oh god, he's like a younger brown haired Sherlock.

I realise that I haven't answered him yet. "Uh... I used to be an army doctor over in Afghanistan but now I work as a stand in at the General Practice. What do you do?" I stutter.

"I'm actually still at school."

"Oh," I say, actually interested, "What are you studying?"

"Believe it or not I'm studying medical. Well, actually that's sort of a lie. I'm studying to become a vet."

I giggle like a child and quickly stop myself, "I think I've had too much to drink, I'm giggling like a school boy."

Chris laughs too, "I'd say not enough, my man." He waves his hand in the air with a broad smile, "Two of you specialty cocktails," and then he turns to me, "On me." He hands over a note that I don't have time to observe but I can guess it's more than a 20 pound note.

While we wait I question him about veterinary studies, "I'm looking to become an equine vet as my first option, pets as the second. Horses are very specific."

"Why horses?" I ask, leaning my cheek on my palm and leaning towards him a little.

"It's sort of like a family thing, I grew up in the country but I've been in London since I was 13."

The barman slides over the cocktails and Chris takes the first sip from the straw. I take a sip of the sweet liquid and immediately feel a tickle in my head before I've even swallowed. I know I shouldn't but I drink it anyway.

"Tell me about you work in the army," Chris finally says.

"Terrible, terrifying, worst experience of my life but in some ways the best."

"Why'd you leave?"

"I got shot," I laugh faintly as the tingles rush up and down my spine. I swill back the last of the cocktail.

"That was fast," Chris says. I look down to his hands, he's barely even half finished his.

I do nothing to reply but burp a sweet tasting bite.

Chris giggles, "I like you, John."

"I like you too," I say without thinking.

He's places his drink gently on the bar and takes hold of my hands. "You know, I've never connected with someone so quickly before."

He leans close. Ahh, stuff it. It's not like my relationship with Sherlock is going anywhere at all. I lean in too, mirroring his movements. He smiles softly and I can't help but do the same as our lips clash messily in a kiss that smells strongly of alcohol and morning regrets but I don't care. He's kissing me and I'm kissing him right back and I'm so tipsy that it feels right. Halfway I realise that this is my first non-dream, real life kiss with a male. This only spurs me on.

And then just as we find a rhythm in our drunkenness a hand squeezes my shoulder and a voice sound viciously in my ear.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock.

He rips me away and I fall backwards off the bar stool. He reaches down and grabs me by the front of my shirt, just beneath the collar and drags me to my feet.

"You come too," he growls towards Chris.

Chris stands willingly with wide eyes, "I'm sorry," he stutters, "I didn't know."

"I don't care. Out," He growls more forcefully.

Out on the street, I'm finding it hard to stand, my only support is Sherlock's hand still on my collar. "What do you think you're doing?"

"We're not even together," I yell, stamping my foot like a 3 year old having a tantrum.

"Not you."

Chis looks up to Sherlock, "Look, I didn't know he was in a relationship, I just wanted to kiss someone and we got on so well. I don't know what I can say."

"You're still in school," Sherlock says, looking him up and down, "He's almost twice your age." I try to stay quiet and not talk back.

"I know, I know but… hang on… how did you know I was still at school?"

"Lucky guess," he lies.

"Just I'm studying medical and he was an army doctor and he was nice. Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to," he snarls, "go."

He turns to me and looks me in the eyes, "What have you got to say for yourself?"

"You already know."

"No, I don't. you have to tell me."

I spit at him. He simply wipes it from his cheek and steps away from me. "Fine, play with your school boys."

He turns, tails of his coat swishing around him, and leaves me alone outside the pub. I watch him as he goes, thoroughly upset with myself more than anyone else.

Then anger swell in my head and I call, "Maybe I came here because I was heartbroken because the man I love won't confide in me for anything."

I know it's a mistake as the last words leave my lips because he freezes in his tracks, halfway between steps. He doesn't turn, he doesn't speak, he just freezes.

"I'm sorry," I say, my eyes are starting to prickle with tears now. "I'm sorry," I cry again, hoping that this time he will respond.

He is still frozen to the spot. I stumble on drunken legs to him and place a hand on his shoulder. His shoulder flinches violently, "Don't touch me," he growls.

I step back, "sorry," I say again as drop my eyes to my feet.

He begins to swiftly walk away again. I watch him, unmoving with tears now trickling down my burning cheeks.

He's almost out of earshot when he turns on his heel. I see that his eyes are damp. "You never even considered that I have emotions. You never even," he has to pause to take in a shaking breath, "you never even considered that I was scared of losing you as a friend because I loved you and I know that nobody will ever love me. A friend is the closest thing I'll ever have to love. And I can't believe I'm telling you this while you're drunk."

He leaves me on the street. Alone.

I wait outside out door for half an hour before finally entering. The flat is empty with no sign that Sherlock has even been here. I dump my jumper on the couch and stumble to his room.

On his door is he has left me a note that reads, "Gone to stay with Molly, I don't know when or if I'll be back."

And that's the point where I lose it. I can no longer contain my tears and I let them fall freely down my cheeks. I push open his door and fall onto his bed. I curl up in the foetal position and hug his pillow, pretending it's him, and cry myself to sleep.

4


	5. Late for Work

I wake up disorientated and blinking into the late morning sun. After a few moments of bewildered thoughts I realise that I'm in Sherlock's bed. My head throbs but I despite the hangover I can't have had too much to drink because I remember every single detail of the night before.

I'm still tightly embracing Sherlock's pillow which I give one more squeeze before tossing aside. I lazily wander up to the bedroom door, I hope to God that Sherlock hasn't come home yet; explaining why I was in his bedroom might be an awkward event.

I pull the door open slightly and crane my head around it and check the flat. Empty. Sherlock may not be home but that doesn't stop me from sprinting into my own bedroom just in case.

I strip off my clothes, still the ones I wore to the pub and still stinking of alcohol, and grab the nearest clean set of clothes.

I glance at the time while I dress, "11:56!" I exclaim aloud. I knew it was late but not that late.

I pick my phone off my bedside table after leaving it there so Sherlock couldn't contact me. I'm supposed to be helping out Sherlock at the morgue again. Well, I know where I'm definitely not going today. I know I'll have to see him sooner or later seeing as we share a flat but I'm still going to put it off for as long as I possibly can.

I drag myself from my bedroom and stand aimlessly in the kitchen and I stand there with my mind wandering before realising that I should make myself some breakfast. I struggle to think of anything but Sherlock and his face when he turned back to me last night. I try getting my toast out of the toaster without focusing and burn my fingertips. By the time I've run my hands under cold water, my toast is burned black and I gag at the smoke. The toast is as black as his curls. No, what are you doing John?

I toss the toast in the bin and pour myself some cereal into a bowl, or sort of into a bowl anyway, my mind wanders again and it spills onto the bench and all over my feet. I don't bother cleaning I just go to the fridge for the milk. No milk. I always told Sherlock to get the milk. I start to spoon dry cereal into my mouth and sip at the bitter black coffee that I've made with cold water. It's like I've lost my mind.

This is stupid, I think to myself and I pour the coffee down the sink and place the half eaten cereal on the bench. I head to the bedroom to grab my jacket when my phone starts to vibrate. I eagerly check the caller ID hoping to see Sherlock's name but instead find it to be Lestrade's.

"Hello," I answer, trying to sound chirpy.

"Ah, John! You didn't answer before, I was getting worried."

"It was in a different room, sorry," It's the truth but I was in a different room, not my phone.

"Listen, I was wondering if you've seen Sherlock around. He didn't come into work this morning, much like you."

"He said he was at Molly's last night."

"Did she finally get a date with him? Poor girl doesn't know he has no capacity to love," he laughs a little at the beginning but he sounds truly sorry for her by the end.

I sigh, "No, he was just staying over."

"Okay then," his voice seems suspicious. I turn up the volume on my phone, trying to interpret what he's trying to say. "I'll give her a call then."

"Lestrade," I say quickly before he has a chance to hang up.

"Yeah?"

"Could you let me know if you get a hold of him?"

"Sure thing," he says before the dial tone that signifies that he's hung up on me starts.

I turn off my phone. My previous plans to go buy myself some breakfast disappear from my mind as I slump down onto the couch anticipating another call from Lestrade. It's only a few minutes later that my phone starts to buzz again.

"Lestrade?" I answer.

"I just phoned Molly and she said she hasn't seen him since he left the morgue with you yesterday."

My whole body becomes paralysed with worry but my mouth flops open and shut idiotically.

"John? Are you still there?"

"Yes," I manage to stammer.

"Look, I can search for him if you'd like," he offers.

"Please, I'm worried about him."

"I know," he says and this somehow comforts me and I allow my stiff body to slouch and loosen. "I'll do the best I can but he's sure to turn up in a day or two."

"Thanks," my muscles tense again when Lestrade puts a time frame on his disappearance. I want Sherlock now, I need him. I let the phone slip from my hand onto my lap and I can hear Lestrade's voice calling my name again but I don't answer.

Eventually I press the end call button and the noise stops. I lean forward and rub roughly at my temples. Surely he wouldn't leave an investigation at this point. I pick up my phone and call him. I watch as he doesn't pick up and I am redirected to voice mail, I don't leave any. This happens 6 more times before I give up and text him.

"Sherlock, I know you don't want to talk to me and I know you're ignoring me but please just let me know you're alive. Please. I'm worried about you, we all are," the text reads. I hit send with force.

The only thing I can think to do is catch a cab down to the labs and find Molly. Perhaps he's hinted to her where he was off to.

Arrive at the labs with a loudly growling stomach. When I find Molly the first this she says to me is, "I could hear you from a mile away," and then offers to have lunch with me.

"No," I politely decline, "I was just heading down to ask if you know where Sherlock is."

"I haven't seen him since you were both down here yesterday. Look, he does this sometimes and he always comes back."

"Doesn't it worry you that he's gone, Molly?"

She bites her lip, "I get butterflies in my stomach and not the good kind. The kind with sharp feet that flutter around and cut up your insides."

"Look, can you help me find him?"

"Of course, what do you want me to do?"

"Can you call him? He won't answer me but with any luck he'll answer the only person he still trusts."

"He trusts you too, you know," she says while she reaches into the deep pocket in her lab coat.

"Not anymore," I sigh.

"What happened?" She asks before readjusting herself and focusing back on the task at hand, "Sherlock?"

There's a noise from the other end of the phone, he's picked up. My mind jolts with happiness.

"Lestrade was looking for you, said you hadn't come in today," she mindlessly twirls her hair. "Mmm?" She pauses, "I was just wondering where you were, that's all." She giggles into the phone, "Sure, I'll come down in a little while. Did you want me to bring anyone with me? No? Okay then."

"Where is he?"

"He's down at the docks. It's Sherlock but he doesn't sound like him," she replies.

"Please take me with you." I become tense at Molly's response.

"I wasn't planning to leave you here. I have a lunch break in 10 minutes for an hour and a half, more than enough time to get to him. I'm sure they won't notice if I leave a couple of minutes early."

I breathe a sigh of relief as a warm rush of blood calms my cold, tense body.

I count the minutes until we're at the docks; 34 minutes and 18 seconds to be exact and each seconds seems to have taken a century. The place smells of rotting organics and I'm guessing that rotting wood is the wood that makes up the boardwalk that Molly and I now cross. She swears we're only a corner away every time we turn around one on the winding path. It seems like an eternity of walking.

Finally Molly is correct about the last corner and we turn into a damp, muddy outcrop where the concrete construction of the docks ends along with the path. Sherlock sits cross legged in the middle of a particle muddy puddle with dirt and grime streaking his face.

"I told you not to bring him." He spits.

Molly's not listening to his arguments, she's fussing over the man as if he were a 3 year old and to be honest he looks like one apart from the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"How much have you drunk, Sherlock?" She says taking the bottle gently from his hands.

"This is my first!" He shouts at her, snatching the bottle back and nursing it tenderly.

"It's not your first, anyone can see that," she replies, taking the bottle again.

The drunken man, who can barely be called Sherlock if not for the coat, strikes out at Molly, pushing her back in a flicker of anger and swiped the bottle back from her hands before tipping the last quarter of the bottle into his mouth. He wipes away the remaining moisture and looks down at Molly who is now covered head to toe in sludge.

I finally manage to put my army face back on and help Molly to her feet. "Sherlock, you're drunk," I say.

"Evidently," he spits, throwing the now empty bottle aside.

I warn Molly to stay back with a wave of my hand and I take a steady step towards Sherlock. He looks me up and down with a sour look on his face. I take another step and he, expectedly, strikes out at me. His punch is slow enough for me to catch.

I take hold of his fist and twist it around behind him. My feet are used to muddy hand to hand combat zones but Sherlock's are not. His feet slide around in a combination of drunkenness and the slippery surface until he finally falls forwards. I hold him tightly at let myself fall onto him, keeping his arm pinned behind his back. He fails around beneath me, trying to break free of my grip. Finally he ceases his thrashing.

"Are you done with this stupidness, Sherlock?" I growl down at him.

"Yes! Please, just take me home," he wails. His emotions are a mess. Having never seen him this drunk I had no idea that he could go from angry to upset and crying in a space of two seconds but I should have guessed considering how Harry is. He was always so bubbly when he was tipsy but now that I've witnessed him this way, I'm not sure I ever want him to consume alcohol again.

"Promise me that you won't lash out again." He turns his head towards me with dirty tears running across the bridge of his nose. His chin crinkles and his lip twitches ever so slightly. I have to drag my eyes away from his lips back to his eyes. He nods as he blinks another tear. I can't help but wipe a fleck of mud from his cheek, creating a large smear of it across the pronounced bones.

I gaze up at Molly for a second before I slip my arm gently beneath his chest and haul him to his feet; for such a skinny man, he sure can be heavy.

4


	6. Sleep

Molly stands awkwardly in the lounge room as I coax Sherlock into bed. I can't get him to sleep when he's sober, I don't know why I thought I'd ever be able to get him to stay put when he is that drunk.

"He won't lie down, he's just sulking as usual," I say to Molly as I join her in the lounge. "Do you want a coffee or some tea or something?"

"Oh no, I'd better be off," She says with a tired smile.

"Are you sure?"

"He's in good hands," she says, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. She sees my sadness, "you've done the right thing, John," she assures.

"He doesn't want to see me though and I doubt he'll ever trust me."

"He won't hold a grudge against you," she steps forward and lightly places her hand on my shoulder, "He can hate anyone in the world but you."

"I'm afraid that's probably changed."

"Maybe I should stay," she says, "I think you need someone to talk to."

I smile as fondly as I can in my depressed state, "Tea or coffee? We don't have milk by the way."

"I'll go buy some milk," she says lightly. I open my mouth to protest but she stops me before a sound can leave my lips, "It's no trouble, maybe you can convince Sherlock to go to sleep while I'm gone." She smiles and picks up her bag from the table.

"Thanks," I say graciously.

When I hear the front door close behind her I wash my face, trying to remove the dirt and guilt with violent scrubs before I see Sherlock again. I look up into the bathroom mirror to see that my face has been scrubbed red raw. I sigh. It's about time I manned up and faced him. I wipe away the excess water and make my way to his bedroom.

As soon as I open the door he says, "Have you been in here?"

I jump at his comment, surely he couldn't know about me sleeping in there last night. "What makes you say that?" I say wandering over to the window and pulling down the blinds that he has rolled up once again.

"It's wrong."

"what is?" I sigh.

"The room."

I decide that I'm not going to get anything out of him, as usual, and set back to lying him down. "Come on, you need rest."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." I place my hand on his cheek, "I don't think you've slept for days."

"I don't need it."

"Sherlock…"

"Besides, I'm still in my clothes."

I look down. I took off his coat and the one shoe that he was wearing, he'd thrown the other one out of the cab window in protest, but I wasn't game enough to remove his shirt or jeans. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock? Baby you? Because you're acting like one."

"Why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't, I'm sorry. I'm just," I blink away a forming tear, "I'm just worried about you, that's all. You need rest."

Sherlock doesn't say anything more; he just lies back on his bed and pulls the blanket over himself and closes his eyes.

"Thank you," I whisper and pat his thigh lightly.

I hear a buzz from the lounge. Molly must be back with the milk. I leave Sherlock and answer the door. Sure enough, it's Molly with a carton of milk.

"Any luck?" she says, taking the milk to the kitchen.

"Surprisingly, yes."

She smiles broadly, "See, he trusts you."

"I don't think we can hold him accountable for anything he says right now."

"Perhaps… I'll have that coffee. One coffee, one sugar."

She picks up the kettle, fills it with water and plugs it into the wall while I fish out two clean mugs from the dishwasher and assemble the coffees accordingly. Soon we're sitting on the sofa in front of the coffee table and chatting happily, my spirits raised considerably by Sherlock's improvement and the presence of Molly.

"Do you want to talk to me about what happened to make you think he doesn't trust you?"

I look at her begging her to take the question back but she holds her stance. Finally I let out a heavy breath into my coffee and place it back on the table, "He told me part of what the dream was about but I wanted to know more, so I pushed him to tell me. He didn't budge."

"And that's why you think he doesn't trust you?"

"No, there's more." I massage my eyes, disappointed in myself for not realising what Sherlock was trying to say earlier. "He told me he was scared of losing me and I didn't know what he meant until I'd ruined everything."

"I'm sure you didn't-"

"No, Molly. You don't understand," I say unintentionally raising my voice. "Sorry," I say quickly and drop my eyes to my shoes.

"You don't have to be. Go on."

Now is the time to say it. Coming out to the first person. He had always wanted the first to be Sherlock because of obvious reasons, but Molly was his second choice. "I-I," I stutter, "I only found out that I am bisexual when I first met him. I'm in love with him," I look up from my feet and meet with her eyes, she just looks back with sympathy all over her face like she's known the truth the whole time. So I go on, "And he won't open up to me and I was heartbroken so I… I got drunk and I kissed another man," I can no longer control myself and I burst out in a fit of wild choking sobs. Between sobs I manage to force out the rest of the scenario, "H-he saw it, he turned u-up and he saw me kissing another man."

"And then you realised that he loves you?"

"He had to tell me," I hit myself in the head, "And it was so obvious." I choke out another wail and another wave of tears tumble down my cheeks.

Molly is beside me now, rubbing my back and holding me in her arms. I feel like I'm in my mother's arms again. She cradles me for several long minutes as I sob into her shoulder as quietly as I possibly can.

When I finally manage to control myself, her shirt has a large patch on it that has been discoloured by my tears but she takes no notice of it and just looks into my face with a comforting smile. I wipe away the last of my tears and force myself to turn away from her.

"I better check on him," I mumble as I turn.

I push gently on his door, trying not to make too much noise just in case he's actually asleep. I crane my head into the darkened room and find that he is in fact asleep. I tiptoe towards him to make absolutely sure that he's okay. I reach him and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest for a few seconds before leaving again.

"He's fine," I say as I shut the door with care.

"John, I'm going to have to leave." I look over to her, she's gazing down at her phone, "Something's come up at work and I apparently need to be there. Are you going to be okay without me?"

I consider this for a second. Will I? What if Sherlock wakes up? What if he hates me? What if I need support? "Yeah, I'll be fine," I say but I'm not really sure if I will be.

"Call me if you need me, okay?"

"Be expecting a call."

"John, don't be so hard on yourself. He doesn't hate you, not one bit. Now I have to run, are you sure you'll be fine."

"Yeah," I say but as soon as she leaves I say the truth, "No."

Moments later I'm on the couch again, twirling my phone between my fingers and trying to resist checking on Sherlock again. But the constant jittering in my leg forces me into his room again.

He looks to peaceful, lying on his side with a hand lightly curled by his face. His index finger rests delicately on his lips. I bend down to look into his face, stray winding curls fall before his eyes but I don't dare push them aside for fear of waking him. I find myself hypnotised by the rise and fall of his chest and the slight flare of his nose with each breath he takes. I can't draw myself away and back into the lounge so I end up sitting with my back against his door, watching him sleeping for the first time and somehow consoled by his rhythmic breathing.

Seconds after I finally get comfortable my phone begins blaring with a call tone. Panic strikes through me as I leap from his room and put the phone to my ear. I keep my eyes fixed on the bedroom door as I answer with my usual, "Hello."

It's Lestrade's voice on the other end and the first thing he says to me is not a greeting but, "Are you alright? You're sounding a bit breathless."

I try to make a sound like I have no idea what he's talking about.

"Anyway, I was wondering if you'd located Sherlock yet."

"Yeah, Molly and I found him down at the docks."

"Please tell me that he wasn't shooting up again."

"No! No. Well I don't think so. In any case, he's not well."

"Oh, I see. When he is well tell him that we've got another body. Another woman."

"Yeah, I will," I reply shakily. If I had anything to do with it, we'd drop this case until he's recovered but of course, my opinion doesn't matter and Sherlock will keep up the case, he'd never drop it if there was a chance that someone else would take his place.

"Is there anything I can do?" He asks after a pause.

"Not at the moment," I refocus my eyes to find Sherlock's door has now been opened. The tall man leans steadily against the frame of the door and he sways uneasily. "Look Lestrade, I'm going to have to go." I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer.

"John," he croaks.

"I'm here," I rush to his aid, holding him steady.

"John," manages to repeat, his tone drastically changed.

"Sherlock, you need to be in bed."

"I know, I just need. Just need," he trails off, distracted by something in the room. He pushes his body weight into me and tried to walk past.

"We'll make a compromise," I offer, "You go back and lay down and tell me what you need. I'll get it for you."

Surprisingly he stumbles back into his room and collapses face first on his bed. I gently roll over onto his side and cover him with his blanket once again. I lean my hand on his waist and lean down to him. His lip trembles ever so slightly and I find myself try to telepathically will it to tremble once more.

Then they move with scratchy words that seem to tumblr off the tip of his tongue, "I want you to read me a bedtime story."

I'm quite taken aback by Sherlock's wish and I barely manage to ask him which book. He's gone back to being a child but not in his usual destructive and utterly annoying way. He's being a child in a way which I am finding strangely adorable and attractive. He's making me want to baby him and each time I look at him I have an overwhelming desire to kiss his forehead and stroke his hair.

"Make one up," he whimpers, bringing the blanket up to his face and cuddling it sweetly.

"Okay," I look up to the blankness of the ceiling, trying to clear my head to make up a story. "Once upon a time there was a man who had just come back from the war in Afghanistan with a shot wound and a psychosomatic limp. He was alone; no friends, no family and he had nowhere to live. Then he met the most amazing man he'd ever meet." I look down to Sherlock again, he look up at me eagerly, "The man was a genius but he could see things that nobody else could, he saved lives because of it." I look down again to find Sherlock's eyes are closed.

"Don't stop," he mumbles, "I want to hear the end."

I pat his waist, "One day the man fell in love with the genius but he wasn't confident enough to tell him his feelings. He thought that the genius thought he was an idiot so he kept them bottled up until he broke his own heart."

"You're a terrible story teller," Sherlock mumbles from beneath me, "Stories are meant to have happy endings. And that wasn't made up.

My eyes lock with his and I laugh, "Go to sleep!"

He laughs to as I tousle his hair. I go to leave the room but when I reach the door Sherlock says something that I'd never expected him to ever say, "And I definitely don't think you're an idiot." I leave the room with the goofiest smile staining my face.

5


	7. Dinner

Hours later the doorbell buzzes and I answer it within seconds. The Chinese food was late and I'm starving. I give the young man the money plus an extra tip for coming so quickly and hurry upstairs to set out the food. I look down at the neatly set out cutlery and tubs of various dishes and lick my lips in anticipation.

Now to wake Sherlock from his slumber. He'll be grumpy no doubt, he always is, but for once I don't think it'll faze me at all. I've been in his room more in the last 24 hours than I've ever been in my life and I hope it won't stop today.

I reach his side and prepare myself for the insults as I reach down and give his shoulder a light shake. His eyes flutter open and immediately meet with mine. "Rise and shine sleepy head," I chirp. "I ordered Chinese. I got your favourite."

"Are you sure about that?"

"No," I laugh and grab him by the wrists. "Up you get."

He's much steadier on his feet now than he was before. He doesn't wobble at all when he stands still but he's still unsure of his footing when he walks. He stumbles a bit on his way to the couch but it's obvious that the effects of the alcohol are wearing off but not gone.

I place myself in a chair on the opposite side of the table to Sherlock and begin spooning rice and stir fry onto my plate. Sherlock takes the rice spoon from my hand and tries to scoop out the rice with a shaky hand. Rice spills from the spoon onto the carpet.

"I'm sorry," he says with urgency, like he's scared I might hit him for dropping it.

"It's fine. I'll just sweep it up after we eat."

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"Sherlock? What's going on? You're acting… strangely." I tip a large mouthful of rice into my mouth.

"I should be."

"Why?"

"Because I overreacted why I saw you… saw you…" He can't say it, he can't even make eye contact with me, although it's obvious that he's trying to.

"Sherlock, look at me." He tries but he can't raise his eyes from his shoes.

I do the only thing I can think of to make him look at me. I calmly place the plate back on the table and brush the stray grains of rice from my pants and stand. I kneel at his feet with the couch and table at my sides and cup his cheeks in my hand. In his slight moment of panic he looks down at me. I stroke my thumb gently across his prominent cheek bone. He seems to lean into my touch so keep stroking.

"It's was never your fault," I put emphasis on the 'never' just to make sure he understands. "You're right, I am an idiot."

"No, you're not," he says, shaking his head but I simply tighten my grip on his face to stop him.

"I am, I broke my own heart and I broke yours."

He stops moving all together, his muscles clench and then he lets go of them again. I start to draw my hands away from his face but he manages a tearful, "Don't."

I move anyway but not away, closer. I want to kiss him, I need to, but at the same time I'm not ready for it. I wrap my arms around his waist and drag him to his feet. I squeeze him as close as a possible can without suffocating the both of us. I press my face into his chest and take in his scent. He smells like sleep and warmth. I feel his hands creep around my own waist and pull me in even closer. I can barely breathe but I never want to move. His warmth, his scent, his touch, the comfort, the feeling of love, the butterflies; I don't want it to end. Ever.

Eventually my need of oxygen gets the better of me and I have to move, just a little. I try move as discreetly as I can but I can't help but gasp for air as soon as I surface from the ocean of Sherlock's wondrous scent.

"The food's getting cold," he laughs as he releases his grip.

I step back from him and he sits back on the couch. I lean over the table and pick up my plate from the opposite side of the table and sit back on the couch. I position myself so that I'm curled up next to Sherlock, pressing up against him with the butterflies already surfacing again.

"Didn't think you were getting rid of me that easily did you?" I joke.

"I never want to," He looks down to me and grins. God, I want to kiss that mouth. But to my dismay he shoves the largest spoonful of food into his mouth that I've ever seen and takes away my chance. But I still grin goofily back at him when half of it falls from his mouth into his lap. He pouts a playful pout and nudges me.

I shovel some food into my mouth sloppily, mocking his efforts. I feel like a kid again. It's a strange release from my tenseness and worries and I guess my adulthood altogether.

"Open wide," Sherlock commands and I do as I'm told and he starts to make the noise of an aeroplane.

I start to chuckle, "You must still be drunk."

He forces the spoon into my mouth and laughs at me when I choke on the amount of food now clustering my mouth. "I must be, but it's…" he pauses to find a word, "fun."

I don't think he's ever in his life labelled something normal as fun. What he classifies as fun are things like murders and homicides and underground cults. I ponder this for a few seconds when I realise that this is the first time that he's really let me touch him. Sure, he's let me shake his hand and maybe a touch here or there but nothing as intimate as a hug.

Little flecks of rice spill from my lips as I attempt to chew with an overfull mouth. He has gone back to eating sensibly. My heart falls a little at the sight, knowing that the messing around is over. But the tickling sensation in my heart remains from his touch and I realise that it is complete and utter happiness, something that I have not felt in far too long.

I clear up after we finish, not trusting Sherlock to be able to clean without breaking a plate or two. He's still surprisingly unsteady, I assume it's because he hardly ever drinks anything but coffee and tea.

"I'm going to have a shower," He tells me when I re-enter the lounge room. I look him up and down. He's still wearing the extremely muddy pants and flecks still taint his pale skin. I look down at myself; I too am still covered in the dark mud.

"I'll have one after you."

He leaves me alone and a collapse back onto the couch with a smile that gradually grows until it reaches from ear to ear. I feel like all of my dreams have come true because they have. All I wanted was to have Sherlock and now I have him.

Sherlock exits out bathroom a few minutes later with only a maroon towel around him. It hangs precariously off his hips and dashes halfway across the flat into his room.

I leave the couch and search my drawers for something to wear. A cotton shirt and jeans; I don't expect to leave the house I guess it'll have to do.

I yell to Sherlock on my way to the bathroom, "I'm going to go for a shower, don't destroy the house while I'm gone." I'm only joking this time but it has happened before.

One morning I got into the shower with a clean house and came out with a house that was quite literally a science experiment gone wrong. I was fuming that day but looking back, it was quite funny that in 10 minutes our house had gone from clean to covered with foam from the fire extinguisher.

I twist the handles and let warm water fall over my tired body. I scrub the dried dirt from my skin and watch the browned bubbles run from my skin. I lean my forehead on the foggy glass and simply let the water run down my back. I let it wash away the tenseness of the day and let my mind wander. All is I see in my thoughts is Sherlock; his face, his smile, the tightness of the hug.

"Are you alright John?"

I snap out of my trance. How long have I been in the shower for? A quick survey of my wrinkled fingertips tells me that I've been showering for far too long and I step out of the shower onto the soaking bathmat. It squelches beneath my feet unpleasantly.

I reach through the steam for the towel rack, finding noting but a hand towel. Trust Sherlock to take the last one and not remember to put one back in its place.

"Uhh, Sherlock can you pass me a towel?"

This happens far too often for comfort but usually he's not at home. The door opens a smidge and couple of seconds later and a deep blue towel appears. I rub it through my hair with a quiet "thanks."

I dry the rest of my body off and slip on my clothes as fast as I can. I exit that bathroom to find Sherlock plonked on the couch with a dodgy soapy on the TV. He's already got his analysing face and a slight frown from some deduction he's made. I glance at the clock, 7:45. Oh, how I wish it was later so that it would be socially acceptable for me to go to bed. Even though I got up at midday today, it's been a very tiring few hours of being awake.

I make myself yet another coffee and Sherlock another. I hand him his black coffee, just how he likes it, and sit myself down.

Just as I get comfortable he complains, "I want milk."

"Get it yourself," I say starting to pay attention and trying to catch up to the storyline of the show.

"John," Sherlock wails lazily.

I drag myself from my seat and slosh in a bit of milk before trusting it at him. A little of the now milky coffee splashes from his cup onto his crotch and I can't help but feel a bit remorseful. I pass him the box of tissues to try make up for my stupidness.

"I'm going to have no clothes left at this rate," he mumbles, back to his usual blank tone of voice.

"Maybe I'm trying to destroy all of you clothes so that you can't wear any," I say, immediately regretting the suggestion. As I sit, I glance in his direction. His facial expression hasn't changed so odds are he either didn't hear it or didn't understand that it could be taken quite sexually; although, I am slightly disappointed.

The credits roll up the screen as I skull the last couple of mouthfuls of coffee. I yawn into the mug before I place it back down on the coffee table. I lean back into my chair. Ten o'clock, that's when I'll go to bed.

"I want to play Cluedo," Sherlock announces loudly.

My eyes snap open and I launch myself forward, "No, that is not happening EVER again."

"Why?"

"You know very well why."

"I'm bored!" He sulks and splays himself out on the couch.

"Go play on your laptop I say." That's not a bad idea actually. I cross the room to the desk and grab my laptop, leaving his where it is and sit down again.

"Laptop," he says. I look up. He's lying on his stomach, face down with an outstretched arm and a flattened palm.

"No."

He groans and rolls from the couch to the floor. I watch him drag himself around with his arms until he reaches the desk. "You'll stretch your clothes," I say, only half paying attention to him now.

The screen loads to my blog and I immediately start to update the information on our current case. Two bodies, two scars on each stomach, one old and one recent. I write all that I can remember and post it, knowing that no matter what I do; Sherlock will tell me it's wrong.

"Wrong," there it is.

"What is?" I ask, already knowing what comes next.

"It's not the stomachs that are being cut open. I thought you'd know that."

"I do know."

"Then why'd you write stomach when it's so obviously not!"

"Because it might be too confronting to the viewers if I tell them it was the uteruses of those women"

"Why?"

I just roll my eyes at him and log into my private blog.

"Why?" he repeats.

I breathe heavily "Last night," I pause again, momentarily distracted by the fact that last night felt like years ago. I shake my head and start again, "Last night you accused me of thinking that you don't have feelings, I never doubted that you did but I do know that you don't understand them."

"What do you mean?" He spits a little, writing on the couch again. "I know about all the chemical reactions that happen, I know what part of the brain are stimulated in the process, the physical effects of emotions-"

"Don't take this the wrong way Sherlock," I interrupt him, "But understanding emotions isn't about the science of it."

"But science makes the emotions, John!"

"Yes, but that's not the point. Understanding emotions is understanding how they feel and how they sit in your heart. Sometimes I wonder if you understand what you're feeling inside not if you have emotions or not because I know you do."

"But, I'm a genius. How does this happen?"

"I worked with a lot of children and adults, before I went to war, who had trouble identifying or understanding emotions, particularly empathy. You're not the only one, Sherlock."

He grumbles something I don't quite catch and curls up in a ball, facing away from me.

"I can help you," I offer.

He doesn't answer but he uncurls himself and looks at me with soft eyes which I interpret as a yes, no matter what he intended it to mean.

5


	8. Nighttime

We sit in silence for another hour or so, working on our own laptops. I can't see his screen but I can hear him madly typing. I'd be doing that too if I could get my fingers to move that fast.

I click over to my private blog that Sherlock no doubt already reads and scan through the posts. I'm sure I didn't mention anything about him having no emotions but I find one. It was written months ago. I glance over to him; he's been bottling this all up for almost 9 months. It was just about time for his to release it all. I laugh a little; 9 months, he gave birth to his hidden thoughts and opinions.

I read what I wrote, which was all too obviously written when I was very angry over something because it reads:

"Sherlock Holmes. He's an incredible man, a right genius. Except he's utterly emotionless."

I stop there, already dreading what the rest of the entry had said but I force myself onwards. I gulp as I go on.

"He doesn't care about anybody apart from himself. Anyone else is just an unintelligent piece in a game, his game. He watches murders and crimes and doesn't have a smidge of empathy or emotion apart from delighted that someone has been murdered. When I met him he told me he was married to his work, I didn't think he'd mean that he couldn't care about anything else. He's hollow, there's nothing inside apart from science."

I whimper. No wonder he had this idea that I thought that he didn't have any emotions. I wrote it all here that he doesn't have any emotions. I feel a stone sink in me, forcing me down.

"John?" He's raised himself onto his elbows and is peering over the top of his laptop screen and watching me closely.

I try to unwrinkle my face and clear myself of emotion but I can't and I choke on a sob that I've been trying so hard to keep down. I cough and splutter as I try to hold back the fitful sobbing that sits as a lump in the back of my throat.

"John, what's wrong?" He closes his laptop screen now.

I just shake my head hopelessly. I can't look at him. It was months ago but he kept it with him for so long and it hurt him in a way that I could never intentionally do to someone, but I have. I remember now; I'd hoped that he'd read that entry and I'd wanted to hurt him.

He creeps closer to my, stretching out a hand, unsure of what to do. He finally awkwardly pats my shoulder but I flinch away from him. No matter how much I crave his touch, I don't deserve it.

"Sorry," I choke as I stand and run into my bedroom, keeping my head down and slamming the door behind me.

I collapse onto my bed. My eyes darting to the alarm clock and back down again. 10:12. I'm allowed to sleep but I know I can't, not like this. I stare down into my blanket while trying to blink the tears away.

I hear the creak of Sherlock's door as he too heads off to bed but I don't hear his bed springs squeak like I usually do on the rare occasion that he uses it. Moments later my own door creaks.

"John?" Sherlock whispers.

"What?" I growl lazily.

"Uhh, I've got a problem…"

"It better be a good one this time," I moan.

He leads me to his own bedroom and I look in. "What's wrong?"

"The bed."

I gaze at it in the dim light but the problem is clear. Leaving his clothes on when he got home was definitely a bad idea because what used to be stark white sheets now look like the place that I found him just a few hours ago.

"Uhh," I search my brain for a solution. "I guess I'll sleep on the couch then," I say, rubbing my hand through my hair.

"Wrong."

"What-"

"Wrong," he says again with a slightly different tone that suggests that the answer is obvious.

"You can't sleep on the couch, Sherlock. You're much too tall, you'll get a sore back."

He bites his lip in response with a look that says that he's just been proven wrong and then he heads back to his own room.

My head still flusters with guilt from just a few minutes ago so I say, "Well, I won't wash them until tomorrow so I guess we'll just have to share a bed for tonight."

He looks at me innocently, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I say. I entwine my hand with his and lead him out of his room and back into mine.

I lay on my preferred side, waiting for him to complain but he simply stands on the other side of the bed looking like he's unsure of his surroundings.

"I need- I need to change," he says.

I look down at my jean clad legs and nod at him. He turns away from me and I turn away from him and strip off my jeans. Reach blindly under the pillows for my boxer shorts but struggle to locate them. I turn, forgetting that Sherlock is changing on the other side of the bed and see his bare back flex as he reaches down. I snap my eyes to my hand which now holds my boxers and I turn my back on him to slide them on.

Eventually Sherlock announces that he is finished changing and I turn and lower myself onto my bed, but for the first time, I'm not alone. Sherlock lies stiffly on his back with the blanket resting gently over his pale chest. I cover myself too and find myself immediately drifting off to sleep, comforted by his presence.

I'm just about asleep when Sherlock decides to roll onto his side. I turn my head to find it extremely close to mine and I jump a little before he presses his nose closer until it brushes the tip of my own nose.

"Sher-"

"Shhh," he commands as he scoots himself closer to me.

I let him get closer and closer to me without panicking but when his arm snakes over my waist m pulse skyrockets and I inhale sharply. He moves his arm back but I manage a grunt which he interprets correctly and repositions it over me. I look back at the ceiling and he takes advantage of the space I've now provided and nuzzles his face into to crook in my neck. I feel his breath down my neck and a shiver runs down my spine and sends tingles throughout my whole body.

Not even a minute later, Sherlock has fallen fast asleep and I rest my arm on his slender body, trying to keep myself awake. But the constant rhythm of our breathing soothes me and I fall into the depths of a comfortable sleep.

When I wake in the morning, Sherlock is still entwined with me. I blink into the morning light that pours through the open blinds. I squirm a little under his weight and lift his arm from my stomach, rolling him onto his back beside me. He groans a little and a frown creases his face but it quickly fades as he falls back into his slumber.

I creep out of the room, leaving him sprawled across my bed, and flick on the kettle. He joins me in the kitchen just as the kettle brings itself to the boil, rubbing at his eyes.

"Black, one sugar," he says, brushing a few straggles of hair behind his ear.

I focus my attention on assembling their coffees and turn again to hand Sherlock's to him but I find the place where he stood just seconds ago empty. I sigh involuntarily and make my way into the living room. I find him like I find him every other morning; curled up the centre of the couch with a laptop balanced on his knee. He raises his hand for the coffee and I grumpily place it on the table before him and flop down in a chair opposite him to nurse my coffee.

"They found another body yesterday," he says.

"Yes," I answer hesitantly, knowing what comes next in this conversation.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were drunk out of your mind. Do you even remember us finding you?"

He looks down, "No…"

"I didn't think so."

"What did I do?"

"Molly and I found you down at the docks, wallowing in the mud with a bottle of whiskey." I pause and wait for him to respond at all but he just keeps his eyes on his screen. I'm doubtful he's even listening to me at all. "Sherlock," I snap, "You hit Molly."

He closes his laptop screen and tosses it onto a cushion. He wraps his slender fingers around the handle of the coffee and peers over the rim as he drinks.

"Are you even listening to me?" I give up. He has emotions but he just doesn't use them. I escape to my own room again.

Sherlock's smell fills my nose as soon as I enter. I just need to be alone, away from the toxic situation which is Sherlock. The situation which I have caused again and again.

And then I hear his voice. I press my ear gingerly to the wood of the door and listen.

"Err, hello Molly," he says awkwardly, "John let me know about yesterday… Can you meet us at the café by our flat?"

I slide out of the doorway and watch him pace around the room with his back to me. I silently slide towards him as he mumbles a "Thanks," to Molly. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist and feel him jump beneath me but I do not loosen my hold.

"Well done," I whisper into his ear, having to stand on tiptoes to reach it.

He twists in my arms so that our torsos press tightly together as they had done the night before. I gaze into his face, feeling him read me like a book and I blush a little before trying to read him. I read nothing but the cheeky smile on his lips. His hands slid up my back until they reach my shoulder blades. I roll them into his touch. His smile broadens ever so slightly and proceeds to tousle my hair.

"Come on," he whispers into my ear, "We need to meet Molly at the café."

His lips brush gently against my ear as he speaks. My spine jolts with shivers that I have failed to suppress within myself and I jerk forward, hitting the underside of his chin with the top of my head. I hear his jaw snap shut but he doesn't pull away, he merely pulls me in tighter.

He is the one to finally put a standstill to our embrace with his phone violently vibrating in his pocket. "Molly! Hello. Yes, we'll be down in just a second… John was… uh… debriefing me about my behaviour."

He taps the end call button and gives me a grin; a grin that says that he is proud of himself. I'm proud of him too, for once he'd trying to fix things.

He hooks his arm through mine and pulls me towards the door. I freeze.

"What's wrong?" His brow is creased with confusion and a slight hint of hurt.

"I just…" I stumble over my words, "I'm just not ready to let everyone know yet."

"But it's Molly?" His eye brows crease even more than I thought was humanly possible.

I raise a hand to cup his cheek, "I need time."

He nods and settles with courteously opening the front door for me. Molly is stood just outside our door, clutching at her hand bag nervously.

"Hey," I say, her head shoots up and her eyes lock with mine. She's worried, anyone could see that.

"Hey," she breathes.

"Coffee?' Sherlock says in a chirpy voice already reaching for his wallet.

"Tea for me today," she says, her voice unsure.

We sit at our usual table and sit in silence while we wait for our orders to arrive. After what seems like hours the waitress places three cups of steaming liquid in front of us and we begin to talk.

"Molly, I would like you to accept my apologies for my behaviour yesterday," he says as she takes her first sip.

She swallows involuntarily and coughs until her face goes red.

Sherlock turns to me, "Bad?"

"Bad," I confirm, "Wrong time."

"Damn," he mouths.

Molly takes another rasping gasp and catches her breath again. "Thank you," she graciously manages.

"Apologies," he says again, "But you must understand that I was not in my own mind at the time."

"I do," she smiles, "but I have a rather blue bruise to prove that it happened. I couldn't sit down all night," she blushes, realising how her last sentence could be interpreted but Sherlock seem unfazed by the comment.

I sip my scolding coffee and wince at the burning sensation before I join the conversation, "I didn't even have to tell him to call you which is a rare occasion. I think it means that he's truly sorry."

A smile flickers across Molly's face and she looks over to Sherlock with her gaze full of admiration. "I accept your apology."

Sherlock smiles a real smile, pleased with himself and enjoying the praise. "I wanted to tell you something else but John won't let me tell you," he bites his lip slightly.

Molly's eyes dart for him to me and fix there. I sigh and run my hand through my hair, fully aware that both Molly and Sherlock are watching me closely. I can't say it out loud, not yet. I've only just become okay with my sexuality myself and I have never once said it out loud. My leg twitches, wanting to move away. I sigh heavily again and open my mouth to speak, feeling my cheeks blush bright red.

"Uhh," I stumble.

I gulp, planning to start again when I feel Sherlock's hand brush mine. I drop my gaze and watch him flex his fingers, intentionally brushing them against mine. I raise my head and lock my eyes with his pale eyes. He blushes slightly, seeing my confusion. He flexes his hand against mine again and I twist my wrist and intertwine my fingers with his. A smile flickers on the edges of his mouth and I blush again with a smile slowly forming on my own.

"John?" I suddenly remember that Molly is part of this conversation as well.

Sherlock nods to me which I interpret as encouragement and I raise our hands onto the table. I glance at Sherlock who is now smiling proudly before I focus my attention back on Molly. She has her hands on her cheeks and the biggest smile staining her face like someone has just proposed to her.

"Congratulations!" She squeals.

I can't help but giggle a little at her reaction, "I'd still appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else about this."

"Of course not, that's your job. Your secret is safe with me," she beams at us.

Sherlock scoots his chair a little closer to mine and out hands stay locked for the entire time that we sit and chat café.

5


	9. Dirty Laundry

**I had a day off today so I wrote a longish chapter and it might be a little jumpy from time to time but I hope you enjoy it anyway :)**

* * *

After a long overly animated chat Molly's lunch break finally comes to a close and she leaves alone at the table. Sherlock and I sit in complete silence, simply enjoying each other's presence and the warmth between our hands.

Minutes later Sherlock brings up to topic of his bed again, "It's still dirty."

"I'm happy for you to keep sleeping in mine," I offer.

He ponders this for quite some time, "I suppose I could transform it into an experiment room."

"Will you keep your promise this time," I say, remembering the last time I tried to get him to confine it to one room only to find that he filled the bathtub with what I hope was pig's blood and the fridge was overflowing with body parts. I cringe at the thought.

"I never promised."

I sigh as I unlock our front door and push my way inside. "I'll be at the laundrette if you need me."

"Doubtful," I hear him call as he flops onto the couch.

I start to tear the mud stained sheets from the bed. Chances are these stains aren't going to come out completely. I carry them out of his room to find Sherlock holding the washing basket out for me.

He rubs the back of his neck nervously when I take the basket from him, "Can I… Can I come with you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because last time you came to do the washing with me you got bored and started analysing people out loud."

"That woman was obviously being cheated on by her husband! You saw the way he was clinging to his phone. She had a right to know her husband was gay."

"You didn't have to yell it at them. Wait? Gay? I don't remember that bit…" I inquire before I can stop myself.

"His shirt looked like the buttons were going to pop off and hit someone in the eye, it was so tight," he huffs.

"Just because he wears tight shirts doesn't mean he's gay. You wear tight shirts," I slap myself in the face, I haven't gotten used to the whole Sherlock-is-gay thing yet.

He smirks at him, "I thought you would have realised sooner."

"Fine, come with me but stop bullying me."

Sherlock races to the door and holds it open for me. I squeeze through the door and start to head down the block when the weight of the basket suddenly leaves my arms. Sherlock now cradles it in his arms.

"I can carry it, you know," I grumble although I am flattered by his complete transformation from a pretentious child into a pretentious gentleman.

"You shouldn't be carrying things with your shoulder."

"That was years ago. It's more than fully healed."

"It's not possible for something to be more than fully healed," he corrects. Maybe it wasn't quite a complete transformation.

A few more doors down and we reach the laundrette. I shove our laundry into the farthest washing machine. Sherlock's sheets along with a weeks-worth of washing spills out of the machine and I wrestle them in.

"Don't we need another machine?" Sherlock says.

"It'll fit," I grunt and slam the door shut.

I wander over to the vending machine, slot in a few coins and select the usual washing detergent then I return to the washing machine, pour it in and hit the buttons to make it start.

I feel Sherlock analysing the man at the other end of the laundrette behind me, "Stop it."

"Stop what?" He answers me but he's not paying much attention to me, he's eying the young man up and down.

The man turns and his eyes widen when he sees two older men watching him organise his washing into a bag. Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other and starts to walk towards him. I catch his hand, "Sherlock?"

"Let's go talk to him."

"What," I exclaim but he's already pulling me towards the young man by my hand.

As we get closer I realise who it is, it's Chris. I feel my face go deep red as I remember the events of that drunken night.

"John?" He says.

"Hi," I breathe, trying to smile but my mouth simply twitches stubbornly.

"Good evening," Sherlock smiles, squeezing my hand lightly with a fake smile on his face.

"Look, I'm so sorry about the other night," he says shakily, "I didn't know he wasn't single."

"He was single at that point," he says so sweetly I feel sick to the stomach.

"I'm guessing he's not now," Chris says rubbing his brown ringlets. "It's too bad, he's a fantastic kisser."

I see Sherlock's eyes widen and he grasps my hand a little too tightly. I squeeze back, sensing that he's not alright with me kissing another man even if it was before he told me he loved me.

"Do you want to meet my boyfriend?"

No, I think but Sherlock is already replying with a sickly sweet fake smile, "Of course."

"How about we meet up for a drink sometime?"

"We're free tomorrow night," Sherlock exclaims with fake excitement.

"How about the one we met at the other night, I've got friends there that'll give us nice discounts," he offers. "Anyway I better be off, James will be waiting for me."

"See you around 9," Sherlock says as Chris packs the last of his washing into his bag.

As soon as he is out of earshot I turn on Sherlock, throwing his hand away from me. "What did you do that for?"

"I want to meet the man who you kissed," he says bluntly, his face blank.

I push past him, purposely knocking him with my shoulder and sit on the bench in front of our washing machine. I feel Sherlock's presence join me. "Sorry," I mutter, "I just feel so horrible about that night. It was a mistake."

"People make mistakes, John," Sherlock says softly.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Yes," I wasn't expecting that to be his answer but I don't dare take my eyes off the repetitive motion of the circulating washing. "Bored," he sighs.

"I knew you'd do this," I reach into my pocket and force the keys into his hand, "Go home and play on your laptop, I'll be home in 15 minutes."

"I don't want to," he says pushing the keys back into my pocket.

"Entertain yourself then," I snap at him.

I expect him just to groan and complain like he usually does but then he does something that I'm going to have to get used to. His arm slides around my back and grasps at my right side while his left hand snakes across my lap and his slender fingers entwine with my own stubby fingers. I can't help but lean into his embrace as he nuzzles himself into the crook of my neck. I am consumed by his warmth and can barely focus myself enough to maintain a steady breathing pattern. I stroke the back of his hand with my thumb as my eyelids become heavy.

Just seconds ago I was about to explode with anxiety and self-hatred but now nothing seems to matter. I'm drifting off in Sherlock's arms, such a perfect place to be. Somewhere, far off in the distance, a washing machine beeps but I find myself unable to care. Sherlock stirs beneath me but I groan at him until he settles again.

We must stay like this for some time because the owner of the store eventually comes over and shakes us both until we wake. "Boys, your laundry is done," he says in a gruff voice, "Not kickin' you out or nothin', but we do have other customers and all."

"Sorry," I mutter sleepily but I don't free myself from Sherlock's hold. Once again I can feel him analysing the man even though I can't see him. I nudge him with my shoulder until he gazes up at me with a pouted lip. "Come on you," I smile.

I hurriedly pull the laundry out of the machine and fold it into the basket. As always, it's still slightly damp even though it should be dry but luckily it's cold enough to put the heaters on. I hold the basket up to Sherlock and he takes it in his arms again. I hold the door open and we walk briskly back to the flat.

"I know you were in my room the other day," he says out of the blue.

"I was cleaning up the broken lamp. Which reminds me, why was that broken?"

"Experiment on the velocity of glass shards and it's relation to penetration on impact with skin," he waves his hand, almost dismissing me. He tosses the basket aside and faces me, "But that's not what I mean. It's obvious you were in my room."

"How?"

"The bed was made when you brought me back home."

"Sherlock, you were drunk out of your mind. How did you even notice that your bed was made."

"I'm still a genius even when I am drunk."

I can't help but laugh at him. I take a step towards him and cup his face in my hands, bringing it down until our foreheads meet.

"You are definitely not a genius when you are drunk." And then my stomach twists like someone has grabbed hold of it and started to pull it out of me and I have to close my eyes. "I don't want you drinking tomorrow night… or ever again."

Sherlock presses his forehead into mine, his long nose poking into my cheek and his lips just millimetres away from mine, "I promise," he whispers.

My mouth opens slightly of its own accord and I taste his breath on my tongue. I could pull him closer, our lips could meet and I can finally kiss him. But I don't. I just breathe him in. His lips twitch close to mine. My hands are already around his face but I can't make them move, they just grasp his cheek bones tenderly.

"John," he whispers sweetly.

His lips move away from mine and I feel my head tilt up, trying to follow them. I open my eyes to find his pale eyes. Time slows and everything in the universe ceases to exist again. It's just the two of us, gazing into each other's eyes, my hands around his face and our bodies pressed close. That is all that exists in the universe. He blinks slowly and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. I want more. I press my body up against his roughly and he stumbles slightly.

"John," he gasps and pushes me away slightly.

I feel my cheeks burn deep red and I drop my gaze to my feet. I find myself unable to say anything, my mouth just flaps open and closed stupidly with my hands pulling at my jumper.

"John," he says again, "I've… There has never been anyone who has caused me experience such emotions as you have. I don't understand it."

I stare at him again. Sherlock, the genius who knows everything and who is a complete twat about it, doesn't understand love. I try not to look as surprised as I feel but I accidentally blurt, "You've never been in love before?"

"Everyone else is tedious and an idiot."

"You call me an idiot and boring all the time!"

"On the occasion, yes, but not always, you do have some traces of intelligence."

"I'm just going to take that as a compliment although I'm not entirely sure that it was."

He smirks and with that, apparently our conversation has ended because he turns away from me and drags his bed sheets from the basket.

"I'm going out to the morgue after I fix my bed," he announces before disappearing into his darkened room.

I should have known he wasn't going to forget that body for just one day.

I sit back and wait until Sherlock decides that his bed is made and slips his coat over his shoulders. I follow him grumpily onto the street, taking my time to annoy him. He raises his hand and a cab arrives at the curb almost instantly and he slides into the back seat. He announces the address and the cabbie takes note. Off we go, back to work and our normal lives as if the last couple of days haven't happened at all.

Molly greets us at the morgue and leads us down to where the newest body is stored.

"Since we didn't have either of you with us when the woman was located or when she was brought back here, I got another doctor to determine the time of death."

Sherlock sighs impatiently.

Molly stutters a little at being rushed, "She was dead for 5 hours before she was located at midday yesterday."

"Who was the doctor?"

"Not Anderson if that's what you're thinking. I know how much you hate him."

"Good, you've actually learnt something," he says, genuinely praising her but, as usual, in the wrong way. She frowns slightly and he looks to me with confusion on his face. I simply shake my head at him until he frowns too. "Show me," he finally says.

Molly scans the list on her clipboard, sliding her finger down the page until she finds the number that she's looking for. "Sorry we didn't have her out already, we didn't know you were coming."

She takes small steps around the room until she finds the matching drawer and pulls it out. The drawer is closest to the ground and the tray she lays on is not one of the newer, detachable ones so we settle on standing above her. Through the dark plastic of the bag she rests in, I can see the shape of a woman.

Sherlock strides over from the far side of the room, scalpel and magnifying glass in hand. "Unzip her," he commands and Molly does so without hesitation.

She's young, much younger than the other two women who must have been late twenties or early thirties. No, she's much younger; she barely looks 17. The sight of such a young woman, with so much life ahead of her, lying dead in the morgue with a matching scar on her belly makes my stomach twist into a painful knot.

"Interesting," he mutters to himself. "Where are the other two?"

Molly steps back and pulls out another drawer just left and one up from the other. "This was the second and the first is in the drawer next to her the third on your side, John."

I bend down and slide out the drawer, immediately unzipping the corpse bag. The face of the first woman stares back at me, eyes still wide open. Sherlock looks the first two women up and down and then returns to the third woman. Although she's not a woman, is she? She's just a girl.

"This one's different," he announces after a few long, silent minutes.

"How?"

"Look."

I try to stay objective and observe the girl as he does, clearing out the emotions that come with such a confronting image. I honestly don't understand how he can push them back and not have them affect him at all because all I see when I look down is a girl who has been murdered brutally before she had a chance to live her life.

"I can't."

"Think objectively and observe."

"I can't, Sherlock. It's a young girl."

"Oh, nobody cares, John. It doesn't matter."

I glare at him and in my peripheral vision I can see that Molly is doing the same. He turns his head back and forth to look at the both of us. He doesn't realise the how sensitive the issue has become.

"She's a child Sherlock."

"She's dead; she can't hear us or do anything about it so why should I care about her except as an objective clue to this case."

"Morals, Sherlock. Or don't you have any?"

He screws up his nose at this, "They're too time consuming and they blind people from the facts and lower the intelligence," he waves his hand around like what he has just said is obvious and unimportant.

"I don't even want to know why you think that," I growl.

He ignores my comment and continues with his deductions, "Uterus, that's obvious but this one is slightly different from the others because she also has a fresh wound on her neck. It's not deep enough to kill her but due to the angle of the blade the incision looks as though it were deep enough. The only logical option, considering the state of the other women's necks, is that they are trying to frame injury to the neck as the cause of death. But this girl has not been drowned like the others." He turns to Molly who still stares at him with a horrified expression, "We need to test their blood."

Molly yanks open a drawer in to counter and pulls out three sterilised scalpels in bags and three petri dishes and hands them the Sherlock. He rips the plastic from the first scalpel and marks it with a symbol with a marker from his pocket.

"With any luck, I'll still be able to scrape a little blood from the arteries for testing," he mutters to himself, forgetting that Molly and I are still watching him.

He makes an incision into the wrist of the first woman and holds out his hand for the first petri dish which Molly has marked with a 1. He scrapes around the vein a retrieves a small globule of half dried blood. He wipes it into the centre of the dish and hands it back to Molly who places the lid on it puts it on the desk. Sherlock does the same with the other two bodies.

* * *

**PS.**

**A couple of things you should know...**

**1. I don't know how Launderettes work apart from a brief experience when I was 8 and what I know according to one Simpson's episode**

**2. I'm not very good at writing Sherlock's part so I'm sorry**

**3. I'm not actually planning this story so it will probably end up quite long like Written in Crystal which I literally didn't plan for at all ever and that worked out fine (I think)**

**4. I'm going away for a little while so there won't be an update until at least the weekend and it might come later**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	10. Unusual Deaths

I glance at the clock on the wall. We've been here for two hours and it's extremely hard to believe it when I look at how little we've achieved but when I bring this up with Sherlock he calls me an idiot and restates everything that we've found since we arrived at the morgue today. We've actually figured out quite a lot and by 'we', I mean 'Sherlock'.

Sherlock stares intently into the microscope, occasionally swapping petri dishes while Molly and I wait in silence, not daring to utter a word or look over his shoulder. But as usual my body is not in the obedient mood and my stomach growls overly loud causing both Molly and I to jump.

"Shall we go grad a bite to eat," Molly says, it's less of an offer and more of a command.

"Uh, yeah. Do you want anything Sherlock?"

"Coffee, black.

"Food?" Molly chirps.

"Slows me down."

Molly and I venture upstairs to find the café barley open.

"Just shutting up," she keeper says, "but I'll do anything for our Molly." He's around Molly's age and quite handsome and his gaze is kind and loving, nothing like that time she accidentally dated Moriarty.

She blushes and giggles beside me like a school girl. I suppose it's Molly's innocence that gives us all such a reason to love her and today's events have shown that even Sherlock can't resist caring for her.

"One coffee with a dash of milk, no sugar. And one coffee with one sugar no milk."

"I know Molly's order," the keeper says before she can speak. "Coffee that is milky and as sweet as she is," he flirts. "Anything else?"

Sherlock won't eat but I'm hungry enough to eat his share so I order us both a burger and Molly orders a large slice of cake. We sit back and wait for the coffees and burgers, chatting calmly.

"So how are things with Sherlock and you?"

"You saw us earlier today," I glance up at the clock to check if it still is today.

"Yes but I didn't see you for a while."

"We just went down to the laundry to clean his muddy sheets from the other day."

"Nothing dramatic?"

A face shifts into my imagination. It's a young face but so similar to Sherlock's yet different. The eyes are darker and the hair is brown. It's a face that will make me shudder with guilt and disgust for years to come.

"Uhh.. Yeah, there was actually."

"Coffees!" the shop keeper shouts. I stride over to the counter and take the three take-away coffees into my hands. "The burgers will be out soon enough."

I nod in thanks and re-join Molly whose face has contorted with worry and curiosity.

"I told you about Chris," she nods, "We saw him at the laundrette," I start, reliving the story as I speak.

Molly looks up at me with shock as I finish off my tale. "Are you going to go?"

"I think I have to. We need trust between us and right now," I pause to construct a sentence, "right now, I'm not sure we have the trust we need. He seemed fine about it, I mean, he looked it but I know he wasn't and I know he's planning something. I want this to work Molly. It hasn't even been two days."

"Just go, you can control him."

"And if I can't?"

She shrugs and stands, collecting the burgers and cake on a tray and saying, "I'll drop this off in the kitchen when we're done." She shopkeeper smiles and we leave for the morgue.

"You and the shop keeper seem to get on well," I say, trying to start up a normal conversation.

"Yeah but after I dated Moriarty, I'm not sure I ever want to date again," she laughs light-heartedly.

I open the door for her and we slip into the morgue as silently as possible. Sherlock still sits facing the wall with his fingers pressed tightly to his temples with the laptop open before him. I approach him quietly with his coffee in my hand. As soon as I place it on the table he gasps. I jump back, almost bringing his coffee with my sharply convulsing hand. It teeters on its edge but falls back onto its base.

"Amanita Mushroom," He gasps again as he drags himself to his feet.

"What?" I follow him back to the young girl's body.

"It's a type of mushroom, quite common and poisonous. It affects the liver, kidney and heart and leaves to outer body relatively unscathed," His eyes widen with excitement and fascination, "It's a violent death and they are conscious through the entire thing but they can be paralysed with stomach cramps." He looks utterly trilled with the horrific death of the young girl, "Look at the scars though."

I force my eyes down to the familiar scars. At least they are neat and stitched carefully. Oh. "It's different. Still two scars but this one's carefully stitched."

"Precisely. Which means either the murderer of the first two women learned how to stitch properly, which I highly doubt, or this one was done be another person leading me to suspect there is a cult."

"But why women? Why these women? And why are they masking their causes of death?"

"Now you are asking the right questions," he ponders the body for a second, "The uterus replaces the lining once every month and there are only a few ways to stop it. There's the pill, hormonal implants, IUD and IUS. They are all contraceptive methods that can result in the loss of a period. But after observing their blood for foreign components I found no trace of the pill in any of their blood. The autopsy from the bodies would have revealed an IUD or an IUS, excluding the third as we have not investigated the wound yet."

I watch him in shock he has no knowledge of emotions or social behaviours or morals but this, science, he can retain in his mind even if it is not relevant to him. I know of all of these from my years as a doctor before the army but I'd never have thought of checking for any of this.

He pulls up the sleeves of the young girl, still clothed under the requests of Sherlock, as searches both arms for hormonal implants, no scars. I look to the other two women, neither of them have implants either.

He pulls out his trusty scalpel and picks at the stiches of the third girl and pins open the incision with staples. "Look."

I don't but then I feel his glare in my chest and I have to look down. There is nothing there. Nothing out of the ordinary just a young girl who died a painful death.

"Pregnancy?" I ask, feeling slightly proud of myself.

"What?"

"They weren't supposed to get pregnant after they had damaged the uterus, they took the baby out," I realise that I'm wrong with a stern glare from Sherlock

"Obviously not, the uterus was sliced into with a rough cut, the damage would have halted the menstruation cycle altogether. Then it was cut open again. Tell me John, why would they have cut into the women twice and only killed them on the second occasion."

I groan at this, "Why did you go through all the forms of contraception then?"

"I needed to be absolutely sure that we were correct about the storage of items. There is no other reason, when all the facts are considered, that the uterus should be cut into twice. While the second woman's first incision is relatively recent and not yet fully healed, the other two are older and could have been present for years. I would say transport but that's obviously wrong, considering the age of the healed scars, so evidently they were cut open to mark their place in the cult."

"But why take it out?"

"Stupid question," he snaps, "I've made it blindingly self-explanatory! Molly," he looks to her, hopeful that he is not surrounded my complete idiots; a look I know all too well.

She clenches her jaw as she intently puts together information, apparently taking far too long to answer because Sherlock interrupts her train of thought.

"So that we can't trace it back to the source!" He's holding out his hands, palm up with a look on his face that screams, "Praise me, I'm brilliant."

I nod at him; it all seems too simple now. I glance at the clock, one in the morning; a late night again. I skull my coffee and hand Sherlock the hamburger. He looks at me sourly but I thrust it towards him again and he takes it into his hands.

Not too long and we've eaten and packed away the bodies and stored the samples and backed up the new evidence on the data base. I guess I'll have a fair bit of work to do on the data base today.

We catch a cab with Molly and plan on dropping her off at her flat before continuing to ours. I sit on one side of the cab while Sherlock sits on the other, Molly between us. Whereas the last trip at least Sherlock and I held hands while he thought, now all three of us sit in total silence while he ignores the world and Molly and I struggle to think of anything to say.

Finally the cab pulls up at the curb and we watch her until she's safely inside her flat before giving the cabbie the next set of instructions.

I don't dare move closer to Sherlock while he's in his mind palace and simply rest my hand on the seat between us. He sighs a low annoyed sigh.

"What?" I question with slight annoyance.

"Must it always be me to make the first move?" He laughs to himself a little.

I punch his arm playfully, "Quit your whining and come here," I order.

"I'm taller," he argues.

I giggle at his pout and refuse to budge. For the rest of the ride home we tease each other with immature giggles and playful pinching and punching. I almost forget to pay for the cab when we arrive at our flat. We stumble into the flat, still giggling like toddlers and head past the entrance to Mrs Hudson's flat. We hear her yell, "Quite boys, it's late," as we collapse onto Sherlock's poorly made bed.

He pushes me onto my back and places a hand either side of my head. I watch his ringlets as they playfully bounce with his movements. I gaze into his eyes and bite at my lip softly. I feel him lower himself down onto me, our chests collide almost gracefully and his long nose meets mine in an Eskimo kiss. I giggle again and curl my arms around his skinny waist, pulling him further down and he lets himself go. He lowers his head so slowly I can't bear it but his lips shiver close to mine and their moist softness touches mine. I search for words in my mind, words to describe my feelings but I can only think of one thing. Finally. It feels like finally.

Everything freezes; we stop breathing, we stop moving, the clock stops its ticking, the traffic outside ceases its constant noise and the universe shrinks down to us just like every other time we've touched. But this time, this time it's so much more intense. My bones shake and instead of feeling comfortable and close to sleep, I feel energised and I want to kiss him more. Faster, harder, more sloppily than the careful brush of lips.

He draws his lips away from mine and presses his forehead to mine, our noses clashing messily. He takes a shaking breath, "John," he stammers, "John, I think I love you."

I can't answer him for far too long, long enough for him to start doubting his deductions about me. He raises his head from mine and straightens his arms again so that he can read my blank face.

"John… I'm sorry."

He rolls onto his back beside me and I stare at the ceiling, keeping my eyes fixed on where his head once was. Finally my eyes focus on something on the roof, "Sherlock, why is there a sticky note on your roof?"

I stand on the bed and reach my hand up towards it. My fingers have just grasped the folded edge when his arm swoops up and snatches it from my grasp. I swing my arms up to capture it once again but my height impedes my efforts and find myself hopelessly leaping and grasping at air. Sherlock holds the note just out of my reach and I can think of nothing but to tackle him as if we were playing rugby. I grab him at the waist and push him down so that I land on top of him, effectively pinning him to the bed with my knees. I drag myself towards his long arms and, at long last, take hold of the little yellow note.

I unfold in in my hands to find a heart with two names scrawled in curved writing written inside it. "Sherlock Holmes, John Watson," I laugh. We used to make these as kids when we had crushes.

"I know, I know, it's not good," Sherlock panics. I look down as his rosy red face that was once the palest face I'd ever seen.

"No, it's not," he frowns and his face turns redder, "it's not good, it is perfect." I Eskimo kiss him as I say, "and, just for the record, I love you too."

4


	11. Late Nights

"I'm knackered," I yawn as I roll off to the side.

"Mine or yours?"

"What?" I say, confused for a split second, "Oh, the beds. I want to sleep in yours, with you in it this time. That's if you're sleeping tonight," I add.

"I must work on the case and sleeping only slows my mind."

I let my head flop into the pillows and let out a low groan, "Just one night."

"Out of the question."

"Then I'm going back to my own bed."

I drag myself from the bed and out of the room, pausing at the door for him to answer but it's as if the last few minutes never existed because he's already reaching for his laptop. I leave without a word and navigate my way through the messy living room into my bedroom and fall onto my bed. I've barely covered myself with the blanket when I fall asleep.

I wake with a start, squinting into the pitch black of my room while searching for the source of the unbelievably loud thump. With a nearby rustling and a sudden weight on the right side of my bed I realise that Sherlock has joined me.

"Finished you work?" I ask without thinking.

He jumps, startled by me, "I was trying not to wake you, I read that waking people who are sleeping is a bad thing…"

He rambles on about things that he's read on the internet until I let out a quiet, "Shhhhh."

I open my arms and invite him in but he refuses again. "I'm taller," he says, bringing us back to the conversation we'd had in the cab just hours ago.

He opens his arms this time and coaxes me closer and I can't help but smile as my heart flutters in my chest and a roll into his embrace. I bury my head into the crook of his neck for the first time and let my arm fall gently over his smooth stomach. A slim finger caresses a spot just between my bare shoulder blades and I melt into it, unable to reciprocate. I feel his dry but soft lips brush my forehead. I force my eyes open, trying to enjoy his warmth for as long as I can but, as usual, I'm asleep within seconds of relaxing myself.

I wake to Sherlock's thundering snoring in the early morning. I've never known him to snore. I've never even heard him snore before, although we are separated by our shared bathroom. Shared. Sharing a house doesn't seem so odd now; two men not in a relationship sharing a flat seemed odd but in a relationship things are different. A sense of real life washes over me; something that I haven't felt since before I joined the army. The army wasn't real, everyone acted differently and when I finally got out, I couldn't come back to real life. Sherlock is definitely not someone you'd just happen upon if you wanted a normal, calm life. I reminisce over my life with a soundtrack of Sherlock's snoring until he wakes by himself.

"Coffee," is the first word he says to me when he wakes.

And the first thing I say to him is, "You snore."

"Hmm?"

His brow and chin crease in confusion, a rare expression that has always made me want to kiss him and finally I can do it without it being weird. I peck him lightly and repeat my observation with a soft smile, "You snore."

"I absolutely do not," he argues.

"You do," I say poking him in the chest playfully and roll out of bed. "Coffee?"

"Black," he says before adding, "I don't snore, John."

"I should have recorded it, you were very loud," I yell from the kitchen.

"Are you positive it wasn't you who was snoring?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It was unmistakably you," I fill the kettle and organise two mugs.

"I've never snored."

"We'll see what Mycroft has to say about that, shall we."

"Don't you dare," he gasps, suddenly becoming outraged at my preposition.

"Calm down, I'm not going to."

I watch his face fall from blazing anger to confusion once again but this time a hint of sadness flickers behind his eyes. "A-are we going to break up?"

Incoherent words stumble from my lips. Words such as, "What" and "Why" and "Break-up" are slightly understandable but all I seem to be doing is making Sherlock more and more distraught. Finally I manage to string together some words and say, "What do you mean?"

"Break up. You don't like my snoring. We were fighting."

I gape at him momentarily before I find the words, "Sherlock, for one we weren't fighting in any sense of the word. Secondly, I actually think your snoring is pretty cute. Third, we are DEFINATLEY not breaking up because I love you way too much."

He seems quite pleased with himself and his adorable snoring. I hand him his mug. He wanders away smiling to himself.

"Find anything more about the case," I ask as I sit, not as gracefully as I'd have liked, into the chair.

"Yes," he says bluntly, not planning to go on.

"Care to share," I say, annoyance swelling up inside me.

He hauls himself out of the chair, making a scene of it, slides to the desk and snaps open his laptop. Holding it by the screen, he swings it towards me and settles himself unsteadily of on the arm of the chair.

"Amanita mushrooms grow in the forest areas of Europe and America, dependant on very particular environments to grow. The fungi are purely poisonous meaning that they would not have been imported from these locations for leisurely use." He looks at me like the answer is obvious. With a sigh that depicts his disappointment in me he says, "They have either been planning to kill these women for some time now or have been prepared to kill them since their initiation into the cult in case they broke vows. However, it's obvious that their murders were not because they broke the vows."

"How?"

"They would have been more brutally murdered and tortured. Common in cults…"

"But they were tortured and brutally killed; they were drowned and fed poisons that take hours to kill," I interrupt.

"Yes, but you have forgotten the fact that the item was carried only for a short amount of time, a month at most in every victim. I did some research and found that these murders have been made before, less frequent but the same nevertheless. They are good transporters and what better way to transport something illegal than by hiding it inside a human body, particularly the uterus which was made to protect a human life. They held information that was not intended to be given to the opposition," he pauses to see that I'm following, "Us, John. They don't want the people that can stop them to find out anything. Quite obviously these woman would hold some information about the cult and, if left alive, they could pass what little information they know to other people, hence defeating the anonymity of the people involved and their intentions."

"I wonder how much of this stuff they need to transport," I mumble to myself.

Unfortunately Sherlock answers my rhetorical question with, "These three women aren't the first, they are the beginning to the trade in London but not the beginning around the world. There have been 62 similar cases documented around the world in the last three months and the murders have generally occurred in capital cites of states, territories, counties or regions. This wasn't a cult, this is an organisation and I'll be very surprised if there isn't another murder today."

And it's almost as if he'd summoned a phone call like he summons a cab because my phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. I squirm in the chair a little, careful not to know Sherlock off the arm, and fumble it from me pocket. A gruff sigh leaves my lips as I answer Lestrade.

"There's another one and you better come quick because she's still alive."

"Where?"

"Hospital."

I turn in the chair to tell Sherlock the new but he's already at the door having listened through the phone, "Do hurry John."

I do, I definitely do. For once I'm overwhelmingly happy to see a victim. The journey to the hospital is a complete blur for me and before I even notice I'm in the cab we're parking again.

"Sherlock you need to be sensitive about this," I warn as we reach her room. I plant myself between the door and him, preventing her from entering.

"I don't understand."

"Remember when you thought that I thought you had no emotions?"

His eyes immediately begin to water, "Yes."

"I know you have feelings but you're not particularly good at conveying them, especially to victims. Just try your hardest to be human."

"I am human," he frowns as he tries to make sense of an unfamiliar figure of speech.

I decide not to explain the meaning considering to urgency of the situation. I turn and open the door, entering first.

The room is brightly lit and smells of aesthetic and chemicals. The woman lies on the stark white bed. Her thick, ebony hair is splayed over the pillow and contrasts with the stark paleness of her skin. I'd never thought it possible but she is paler than even Sherlock. She looks exhausted and her eyes quite focus on us as we enter.

"Good evening madam," Sherlock bellows, removing his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair which he then pulls close to her bed. She turns her head to watch him wearily and doesn't answer. "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson. May I ask your name?"

"Laura," she answers faintly. The first thing I notice about her voice is her accent. It is not the accent of a Londoner but I can't quite pick it. Then I notice the youth that still lies in the tone. She's young, not as young as the last girl but she is young.

"Laura, I want you to explain what happened to you." He's being softer than I'd expected, in fact he's being as perfect as he should be.

"They slit me open and took it out and they were about to poison me when my boyfriend came home and they started attacking him and I ran with my stomach still cut open. I lost a lot of blood."

"You need to tell me who they were and what it was they took out."

Laura bites her lip and takes a shuddering breath, "They call themselves Salvatores Liberis. It means-"

"Saviours of Children," Sherlock interrupts. I tap him roughly on the back, warning him of the territory he is entering.

"You know of them?" she stutters.

"No, I just understood the Latin. Go on," he has started to become agitated by her responses but I let him go on.

"They cut into the uterus and make you impregnable and leave something inside."

"What is it? What do they leave?" He snarls at her before his face transforms into a menacing scowl.

She bursts into tears before I manage to stop him from speaking. I slap him over the head and drag him from the chair.

"Not good," he looks hurt.

"Very 'not good'. That was poor, Sherlock, she's been traumatised and is extremely mentally unstable. Let me handle this and we'll see if you can question her anymore."

I take his place in the chair and soften my voice, "Laura," I say coaxing her from the tears, "Laura, it's okay, we are just very distressed about what happened to you and we a truly sorry but you are protected now, they can't get to you." She looks up, "We want to make sure that they are stopped so that nobody else has to go through what you have been through."

She nods slightly, I take this as a good sign and pat her shoulder, "You don't understand what I've been through," she squeaks.

"I've fought in the war, I was traumatised beyond reason and when I finally got home it was because I'd been shot. I understand it," She nods again, the tears finally ceasing. "Would it be okay if Sherlock asks you a few more questions? I'll keep a closer eye on him this time," I offer.

"Okay," she whispers.

I grab Sherlock by the hand and pull him closer to me, "Be nice," I warn.

He nods and faces her, not letting go of my hand, "Laura, do you have any idea what the object is?"

"No, they knock us out before they put it in, but it's big, and stretches out the stomach a bit." She repositions herself in the bed and pushes the cover down, revealing the freshly cleaned and stitched wound. She winces with each slight movement and then again at the dark stretch marks that stain her belly, "Mine was bigger than other women's."

"Did you see it when they took it out?"

"No, there was too much blood and I was too scared to look down."

"How long was it-"

"Two weeks," she answers before Sherlock can finish his question. "Two weeks ago they put it in and escorted me from Wales to London by car a few days later; I've been here in London for a while. They told me to wait."

"Who?" Sherlock snaps, I hit him hard on the back and he clears his throat and repeats, "who" in a softer, more patient tone.

"All I know is they're called-"

"Salvatores Liberis. Yes, you've said that. What did they look like?"

She flinches at his tone and swallows her tears. "I don't know they wore costume makeup, they looked like devils and now, looking back, they didn't look that scary," She laughs weakly to herself, "I guess things are different with a gun to your temple."

"Could you draw their faces?" Sherlock's eyebrow has raised, he now hold out a pen and paper.

"I can try," She says pulling herself up and takes the pen from his hand. She sketches quickly and beautifully but now is not the time to ask her if she takes passion in art and I hold back my interest,

"Why didn't your boyfriend help you escape? Did he come from Wales with you?" he asks as she finishes of her final sketch. Four faces.

"No, he lives in London; I had to pretend to be coming to see him. They have him, they're probably torturing him until he dies." She becomes even more distressed at the sights in her head and her eyes begin to water despite her excessive blinking. "He didn't know about any of this until he walked in on it."

"Thank you, Laura. You've been a wealth of information to us. You have deserved your rest." Sherlock pulls at my hand, which he never let go of, and leads me out of the room.

* * *

**Hello again. Just so you know, I'm writing short chapters for now just to keep the flow but I will condense them after I finish. so if suddenly half the chapters disappear, you know why. **


	12. What's Inside?

"I suppose you want me to look those faces up on the internet then, Sherlock," I huff as soon as the front door has slammed shut.

He thrusts the piece of paper at me and I huff again as I snatch it from his grasp. "It's not important or relevant. Their intentions were to stay anonymous while intimidating their victim enough so that she does whatever they request of her."

I consider this for a moment before agreeing with a nod. "Do you have any idea of what the object could be?"

"I have a few ideas. The stretch marks on her stomach suggest something large but the direction of the swelling suggests that it was heavy and the body could not cope with the strain. That rules out my inkling that it was drugs, although it would be logical to keep it inside somebody as it would go virtually undetected, so I will keep that idea open as the other women did not have such marks." He seems to swat something out of his vision, "My other idea was that it could have been a stone or metal of some sort, one that does not rust or decompose. Which is quite likely in Laura's case, however I am not convinced by this idea because there is no logical reason why it should be stored in a woman's body."

"Some people are just plain psychopaths, not geniuses."

"But the planning behind it, John!"

He's right; nobody would plan to transport a woman from one place to another with a backup plan in case things went wrong and an organised death when the deed was done if they were murdering just for the hell of it.

"Why would they have to store objects inside a body though?" He mutters to himself. He brings his hands palm to palm and holds them to his lips as if he was praying and mouths words until finally, "AH!" He rockets forwards like somebody has kicked him. "They're stolen. Obvious."

"What?" I say, still in shock from his sudden movement.

"Whatever they are transporting, be it drugs or valuable items, is stolen. Put it in a bag or a suitcase and chances are somebody's going to find it. But who is going to look inside a living body for such an item apart from the people who know it is there." His face brightens up like he's a child on Christmas day.

"This sounds like the Blind Banker all over again, except more morbid," I breathe.

"Not in the slightest. And I wish you would let me name our cases every once in a while."

"No, not again."

"Oh, come on! My last one wasn't that bad and you didn't even use it."

"Your last one was horribly offensive to both the victims and their families."

"Do remind me of it," he says suddenly leaping forward and grasping me around the shoulder blades.

His head collides with mine as I reply, "Not a chance."

I do love just standing with our foreheads pressed firmly together. Every time they collide I feel sparks fly between us and the warmth in my heart flickers from a flame of a lit match to bonfire. Bonfire night had always been my favourite nights of the year as a child, watching the flames, toasting marshmallows, having the sweet flavour engulf my tongue and laughing with the other children. In so many ways, this time with Sherlock was like the bonfire nights that were full with happiness in what used to be a cold and harsh time. Sherlock was the light in the dark at this very moment, in the middle of a particularly daunting case. I want to tell him this, let him know everything that he's ever meant to me and everything that he will mean to me. I feel a sudden need for him to know it.

I raise my head to tell him everything that is in my heart but he's speaking before I can even open my mouth, "Don't forget we're meeting Chris and James tonight." And with that the fire in my heart is extinguished.

I'd being trying not to think about it at all because part of me is convinced that Sherlock can read my mind while the other part knows how good his memory is. "Do we have to?" I feel like a child begging their mother to dismiss them from their chores.

"Of course! You said you were fine about it," Sherlock raises his eyebrow at me, reading my expression. "If it hurts you that much, why did you kiss him."

The weight of dread lifts from my stomach and rises into a white hot ball of anger. "You wouldn't open up to me, I tried to help you but you wouldn't let me in," I barely realise that I'm yelling until Sherlock winces at the noise.

"Revenge," he says under his breath.

"No," I try to argue but the cog clicks over in my mind and finally understand my actions. It was revenge. "I'm sorry," I finally say.

"You keep saying that."

"I know, I know but if there's anything I can do to make it up to you, I will do it."

"We're going to meet Chris and James tonight."

He answers with absolutely no hesitation and my stomach responds with a violent jerk. But I have to agree to it, don't I? My head nods before I've accepted the answer.

I barely speak to Sherlock in the hours before we leave, in fact I've avoided him altogether by claiming that I am going for a shower or for a nap. About half an hour before we leave I decide that it's time to dress.

When I've leave my bed room my eyes instantly collide with Sherlock's milky white and slim body as he slips a shirt over his shoulders. I look him up and down from my doorway. He could not fit into tighter pants. Every bulge and every curve is highlighted by the black denim stretched over his skin. Watching him button up his deep purple shirt, concealing his pale flesh, I conclude that he's dressed like this on purpose because the buttons look they are going to pop off at a deadly speed.

He notices my in the doorway with a sly glance. "You can't go like that," he says looking me up and down.

"Why?"

He simply sighs and wraps a slender hand around the material of a shirt hanging on the back of a chair. I look down at my own clothes; they're obviously too loose for Sherlock's liking. I take the bright red shirt and hesitate, deciding if I should close the door or not. Sherlock's eager gaze forces me to change before him. Although I don't watch him, I can feel his eyes exploring my bare chest. The shirt is so tight that I can barely breathe but I look up to see his face streaked with approval.

"How do I look?" I ask shakily.

He simply smirks at me leaves a kiss on my forehead before he turns and leaves the apartment.

We've walked almost halfway to the bar before he breaks the silence, "Like a tiny kitten playing with a ball of wool while butterflies flit around it." I try to figure out what he could possibly be talking about when he clarifies, "I couldn't find just one word to describe how you looked. Adorable wasn't intense enough."

"I didn't see you as a cat person," I laugh fondly.

"They're solitary and intelligent."

"and they love themselves more than anything else in the universe," I laugh again.

"I don't see why it's so amusing," his eyebrows knit together slightly.

I am still chuckling in a loving manner when his hand intertwines with mine. His slim fingers trace the back of my hand, up the bones until he rests his hand within a nest of my fingers.

Seconds, even milliseconds, and we are standing hand in hand before the door to the bar. I swallow sharply and suddenly Sherlock's hand I mine has lost its comfort. In any other situation Sherlock's touch could calm me in an instant. Guns have been pointed at my head on far too many occasions and even the light brush of Sherlock as he moves past me would make me feel calm. But now… now he's the cause of the danger and the danger is losing him like he feared to lose me.

My eyes come to focus and my mind stops racing and I'm already sitting at the bar with Sherlock to my right. He's watching, as always, reading the people around him and figuring out their whole lives and every conspiracy they've ever been involved in. My mind settles into a state that I guess I could call normal. The state where I am on high alert for gunmen or murderers because Sherlock is on the prowl. But then he's smiling and I know my "normal" moment has come to a close.

Chris swaggers up to join us at the bar, his brown curls bouncing and swaying in perfect coordination with his motions. He's already looking me up and down, before he's even said a word, and I suddenly feel insecure about my too tight red shirt. I shift uneasily under its shimmering fabric and my hand squeezes Sherlock's.

"Chris! We were almost worried you weren't going to show," he slips so easily into character I can barely sense the transition. His eyes sparkle with a stunning youth that causes me to momentarily forget that we are two fully grown men on a double date with a couple who are possibly half our age.

"We're fashionably late," Chris laughs. His voice is a tone or two higher than I remembered it to be. He pulls another young man to his side, "This is James," he announces, patting the man on the chest.

He barely looks old enough to be out of school but his steady hands and tall stance suggests something that I've seen in so many young men, myself being one of them; combat training. His shirt is loose and a deep red colour but his arm muscles make noticeable dints in the sleeves. I move my eyes to his face, realizing that my eyes have lingered too long on his chest. His hair is sandy and cut short.

His shoulders are stiff and held firmly until he has surveyed us with his dark eyes. He drops his posture and allows himself to smile and wave with a feeble "hey," in a deep voice.

I return the greeting while Sherlock starts off the conversation, "Chris, John tells me you're studying to become a vet," I don't recall telling him but I don't dare speak just in case I have.

"Uhh, yeah. I'm looking at becoming an equine vet actually," he sits at the table next to the bar and coxes Sherlock and I to join them.

"Ahh, yes, horses are stunning creatures. My brother, Mycroft, had an obsession with them in his teens; that and cake decorating." He smiles animatedly.

"Your brother sounds like a real character," James laughs.

"Oh no, he's quite boring really," Sherlock slides out of character for a millisecond and gives me a quick glance that says nothing but, "why?"

"What about you James, what do you do?" I say, trying to steer the conversation away from Chris for a moment.

"I'm training for the army," His deep voice rumbles.

"Oh really?" My eyebrows rise. This whole shenanigan is flying from my grasp and the world crashes down on my when I say, "You two are Sherlock and I down to every detail," and Chris laughs and blushes.

Sherlock doesn't slip out of character but his hand squeezes mine so tightly that I feel as though my bones are close to shattering. I suppose he has a reason to though. I kissed Chris because he was like Sherlock apart from one thing, and I know Sherlock has figured it out as well; Chris left his emotions on his face for the world to see.

I grimace as Sherlock throws my hand away and slams it on the table. "Did you know that your boyfriend kissed mine?" He spits at James. "Or do you two have some sort of abnormal relationship?"

James regains his army-like posture once more and says, "We have an open relationship, I trust him with all my heart," more calmly than I could have ever imagined.

"And I trust you," Chris replies, fluttering his eye lashes at him and smiling sweetly.

Sherlock for once is so dumbfounded by the reply that all he can do is sit in total silence with his mouth hanging open and a loose grip on my hand. I squeeze his hand gently but he doesn't return my touch. His eyes are empty now and from all my time living with him, I've learnt that his eyes are always full of thought and when they empty, that's when something is seriously wrong.

I search for an escape but the expectation in Chris and James's eyes spur my reluctance to leave. All ideas float from my mind before they register.

"Is he alright?" Chris says, signalling at Sherlock who has almost turned green with his still open mouth now drooping uneasily.

I shake at his hand and he barely focuses on my when his eyes turn to my face. "I better get him home," my voice shakes but my hand is steady as I lift him to his feet.

James lifts himself to his feet, "Do you need help getting him home?"

"You've done enough," I snap as I drag Sherlock to the door.

Walking down the street with Sherlock draped over my shoulders, unsure on his feet, brings back memories, memories which I had thought were long forgotten, memories of the war. Once I had carried my best friend like this from the battle ground. He'd been shot and was bleeding heavily; I kept talking to him, forcing him to answer. He died in my arms just as I reached our makeshift hospital. The blood on my hands haunts me now, but it's not my own, and it's not my friend's, it's Sherlock's. He leans heavily on me now as if he were bleeding out and I know he is; his heat is oozing painful emotions.

I kick on our front door until Mrs Hudson answers. Upon seeing me supporting Sherlock with all my strength, her face takes the shape immense worry but I have no time to tend to her with Sherlock like this. She follows me upstairs to where I coax Sherlock onto the couch.

"What happened?" Mrs Hudson's voice wheezes from behind.

"I'm very sorry Mrs Hudson but I'll have to talk to you in the morning," I say through gritted teeth as a fuss over Sherlock. His eyes follow her half-heartedly as she leaves the room.

"Sherlock," I say, trying not to sound panicked but failing miserably.

"John," he says, looking towards me but not looking at me. It's as if I am only half there.

"Sherlock what's bothering you? I don't care for Chris or James," I try explaining.

Suddenly he snaps from defenceless, empty-eyed Sherlock to his usual self. His eyes search me intently, "John, do you want an open relationship?"

My voice hesitates while my brain processes the question but Sherlock has already read the reaction as an answer.

"Oh," his disheartened gaze drops to his clenched fists on his thighs. "John, I know it's selfish but I don't want to share you with anyone else, even if you don't have sex with them and it doesn't mean anythi-"

I have to stop him. I can't hold it in, "I don't want anyone else. Ever."

He raises his stare and begins to read me again. He takes much longer to reply this time, his lips jerk roughly and he bites into his lip. But he finally speaks. "John, I've never had… Sex before," he hesitates on the word as innocently as a child.

"I don't care," I try to reassure him.

"But Chris and James do it all the time."

"Damn them!" I burst.

Sherlock is taken aback by my sudden outburst. "You don't understand. I'm not sure if I ever want to have sex. It's never appealed to me."

"That's okay. I don't care."

"But without an open relationsh-"

"I don't care if we never have sex," I scoot next to him on the couch and push him against the arm and bring my face close to his. I can smell him; almost taste him on my tongue. "I will never cheat on you; I can't even look at another person in that way because I only have eyes for you."

He makes the move and presses his lips messily against mine.


	13. The Talk

"Do you honestly think all that goes through my head is sex?" I suddenly burst.

Sherlock looks up from his book. His mouth doesn't answer but his eyes tell me all that I need to know.

"For goodness sake," I say massaging my forehead. I leap forward and snatch the book from his hands, "Seriously what do these relationship books even tell you?"

He stares at me blankly as I scan the page. Everything written on the page is written in an angry manner, attacking men for their lack of compassion and their need for sex for survival. I close the book and observe the cover, "Inside the man's mind," written by a group of women. The cover is strewn with pictures of buff men who already look pretty untrustworthy. I flip the book in my hands and read a blurb that basically sums up what these women think "all men" are; stinking, cheating bastards.

"I'm banning you from reading these books," I say tossing it towards the bin. It hits the edge and knocks it over.

"But I don't know how to act in a relationship," he defends, collecting the book from the floor.

I take the book from his grasp, more gently this time, "And you're not going to learn from these books. Especially not this one that is written by women who have been screwed over by men in the past." I sit myself on his lap and play with a stray curl at the back of his neck, "You've just got to go with the flow," I tease him with my lips close to his.

"But I've always learnt from reading," he argues.

"It's different for everybody, you know. It may go smoothly or it might be rocky but we'll make it through. I know we will."

"You can't predict the future, John."

"I know I'll always love you."

"But you only fell for me recently; I'd say 2 months, crushes last from 6 to 8 months" he says, choosing his words carefully.

I groan and rise from his lap. Looking down on him I reply with, "How could you possibly know that?"

"I read it," I says bluntly.

"No, I mean the other part."

"I don't," he gives me a sly glance, "But that's when you started acting differently towards me. You started avoiding me more and conversing with me in a friendly manner less but scolding me more often. I read that," he nods at me as if he's just proved a point.

"I'm guessing you got that all from a book," I scowl.

"I thought you'd be impressed."

"I'm not."

"Why?"

I'm caught off guard by the one of the most simple and most complex questions in the history of the universe. I ponder a response for a second, "Because you can't learn love from a book, you have to feel it and let it take you away with it. If you learn it from a book, it's not genuine."

I take the book from his hands again but this time he does not protest. "I'm sorry we had to leave."

"I know you're not, you hardly ever are because you think you're right," I laugh, "And you were right. I didn't want to be there but I thought it was me who'd crack it first." I tap my fingers on the cover of the large, useless book. "How many books have you read about this?"

"A few," he isn't looking my in the eye, a tell-tale sign that someone is lying to you. Usually Sherlock can look you right in the eye and tell you all sorts of things and you wouldn't be able to sift the truth from the lies.

"You're lying," I point out.

His cheeks flush bright red and his eyes droop with embarrassment causing my heart to flutter with guilt. "I didn't know I was gay, I didn't know I was anything, so I was trying to figure it out and figure out how to tell you."

"How long?"

He takes a deep breath which signals that he is about to start a speech but for once I don't cringe at the thought of sitting here was minutes while he rants about every detail of a case at the speed of light. I let myself sink into the glory of his beautiful voice, the voice that I've never allowed myself to enjoy in front of other people for fear of someone catching me.

"The first time we met in the lab I felt a tickle in my chest but I thought it was simply the anxiety of sharing a house with a complete stranger. Although I did know so much about your history already, I didn't know you at all. Two weeks went by and the feeling stayed. So I looked it up on websites and books. I found books to be the most useful of all the options I had at hand," He pauses for a breath and to steal a glance at my steady face.

"All through high school I put up with complete idiots," I scoff at this but I gain control myself again with a sharp glace from his piercing eyes. "I was never attracted to anyone until college where I met some slightly less idiotic people but nobody appealed to me. In my last year college I got drunk at a party and kissed many people of both genders but I found it tedious and boring to the point where it hadn't appealed to me again. I considered myself as asexual until I met you. You are the only one who caused the butterflies and the appeal for something more than friendship."

"You may still be an asexual, though. The main characteristic is that they can have relationships but have no interest in sex."

Sherlock cocks his eyebrow at this.

"About ten minutes ago you told me that you'd never been interested in sex."

"It still stands the same for now. Maybe one day I will, who knows. One day I might wake up with the desire."

His face flames red and he turns it from me with such a sudden movement that his neck cracks. His hand flies up to his neck to rub where the muscle twinged. I toss the relationship book onto the cushion beside me and stand with his back to me.

I take his large hand gently from neck and hold it in mine. I lean close to him and lightly kiss his neck where his hand once was.

"What are you embarrassed about?" I whisper, allowing my lips to lightly brush against his ear. His jaw clenches and unclenches slightly in reply. "Sex?" I say, ever so softly. His jaw clenches tightly but he doesn't release it again. "It's okay, you know, not wanting it." The heat radiating from his cheeks is as intense as their redness. "You're normal."

"But I can't give you happiness," he mumbles.

"You make me happy. All I need is you to be here, alive and well, and I am content and happy. I love you for you, not for sex." I plant a light kiss on his lips and his intense frustration in himself fades. "Come on, it's late, we both need sleep."


	14. Children

We wake up together, tangled together in a mess of limbs. Sherlock snores beside me but it doesn't press down on my exceedingly good mood this morning. I nuzzle at his neck. Sherlock has pulled his blanket over us during the cold night; his arm still rests lazily where he pulled it over my shoulder.

His eyes flick open and he immediately starts speaking, "We should probably get ready to meet Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" I splutter.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? He wants to be informed about the case seeing as it has become an international affair. I don't plan to tell him much but knowing Mycroft, he probably already knows half of it."

I blink at him in frustration but end up rolling over with a sigh, "When are we meeting him? And where?"

"The office in an hour."

I sigh again and drag myself out of bed. I stretch my arms with a yawn before I realise that I am still not wearing any clothes. My hands whip to my crotch while Sherlock laughs, still lazily spread across the bed.

"I'm naked," I exclaim brainlessly.

"Quite," Sherlock sneers as he pulls himself out from beneath the covers to join me in the centre of the room.

My eyes explore his pale body greedily, "Last night was quite possibly the best sex I've ever had."

"It's the only sex I've ever had," He replies, crossing the room and fishing a shirt and pants out of the drawers. I can tell that he's reliving last night's events because he blushes furiously. "Make me a coffee while you're in the shower," he says quickly turning away from me.

I laugh to myself as I make us both breakfast. When he finally returns from the shower he looks me up and down, "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

"I need a shower, there's no point in getting dressed multiple times," I chuckle. He blushes deep red again.

Half an hour later and we have breakfast in our bellies, are clean and dresses and climbing into the cab. We don't talk much in the cab but our fingers stay laced together until it's time to climb onto the concrete pathway.

Sherlock takes me aside at the door, "Are you still okay with not telling anybody about us at the moment?"

"Of course," His tense face relaxes. Sherlock can read clues and reserve all emotions from everyone but over the months that I've lived with him I've learned to detect when he is nervous and he is nervous now.

He raises his hand without taking his eyes off me and rings the bell by the door. We are led by a hunched-over old man into the room of silence where we are to wait for Mycroft to make his appearance.

"Late as usual," Sherlock announces as soon a Mycroft emerges from his office.

Mycroft's face contorts with annoyance as he invites us in. "I understand your current case has become a matter of international importance?"

Sherlock's face is void of anything that might hint either a positive or negative answer.

"Must you constantly endanger lives of others while mull over a petty childhood feud?"

"This is my case, Mycroft."

"In London where you are based it is most certainly your case but when these sorts of murders are occurring all over the world, it becomes my job."

Sherlock scowls at his brother.

"Not only is this important for the survival of innocent women and girls but passing me the information will ensure that the information does not fall into the wrong hands and get publicised by the media. As you would expect this would cause wide spread grief and distress. I wouldn't expect you to understand emotions, of course."

At this Sherlock snaps. He jumps to his feet and slams his palm on Mycroft's desk, "Says the Iceman," He yells.

"Come now, come now." Mycroft waves his hand, his face swelling with rage, "You have no right to use that against me, virgin," He spits.

Sherlock opens his mouth to prove Mycroft wrong but I grab his wrist and pull him back into his chair. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest and pouts his lip at me.

"For such geniuses, you two sure so act like children," I growl at them both, watching them writhe at my scolding. "Sherlock, tell him what he needs to know and get it over with because I want to leave."

Sherlock whimpers at me in protest but I stare at him sternly. He glances between Mycroft and I wearily before he speaks, "Smugglers," he begins. "A world-spread cult of smugglers is using women, more specifically their uteruses, as a method of transport of stolen goods. We interviewed the only known survivor about the objects, she did not see it herself but reliably told us that the objects were solid and that it was heavy and large enough to cause stretchmarks. The women are attacked and the stolen object is hidden inside of them then they are forced to travel with a small group of masked cultists over an extended period of time to a collection point where the object is taken from her and she is then killed. The cult moves the body and disguises the cause of death to be one that relates to the area in which she is found."

"I assume the deaths are planned?"

"From the moment they are chosen to carry an object."

"And the objects are stolen?"

"I have not seen any of the objects but I have tracked down several recorded accounts of thievery in major museums around the world."

"Very good," he pauses, pondering the information for a second. "That is all the information I require for now."

It is only once we have left the building and are standing by the side of the road that Sherlock allows himself to exhale.

"You did well," I offer.

He turns his back on the road to face me but his shoulders become tense again and he looks over my head. I crane my neck around to find Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"John, a word?"

I turn back to Sherlock and lower my voice, "I'll meet you back at home, okay?" He nods and waves for a cab again. I turn around again with a fake smile plastered on my face. "Mycroft?"

He leads me back into the office and sits me down. After a few awkward seconds of complete silence he finally decides to state his reasoning behind summoning me back, "I want to apologize for my brother's behaviour, he is truly a child-"

"You are apologising for Sherlock?" I ask, appalled.

"Yes?" Mycroft replies, not understanding what he has done wrong yet.

"I beg to differ on who was the childish one in this matter. Every grown man or woman, even with one one-thousandth of the intelligence that you have, has social morals and empathy but it seems as though through your transition from child into sociopath in the brains department you forgot to pick up any knowledge of social kindness. I know better than most that Sherlock can be and will be very reserved with his emotions but in a job like his, seeing dead bodies of children and women and men, you need to be able to put that behind you or you get hurt. But he has feelings, he has emotions, he understands them. So next time you even think about accusing him of not feeling anything, rethink it because we all know he does."

Mycroft looks at me with his eyes wide with astonishment. "Then allow me to apologise for my own behaviour."

"I will allow it, but I won't accept it."

Mycroft purses his lips but when I do not leave, he is forced to confess. "I humbly apologise for my actions in our previous meeting, they were thoroughly out of line and childish and I hope that in the near future you will be able to accept my apology."

I nod and leave without a word and without a smile.

To my surprise, Sherlock is sitting in the back seat of the cab awaiting my return. He pats the seat beside him as I approach the cab.

"You waited?" I say as I slide into the centre seat and prepare myself for the ride.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies in a slightly cold tone. "And what did Mycroft have to say for himself," he grumps in my general directions as the cab shudders and slides away from the curb.

I process the words in my head before I allow them to leave my lips, "Mycroft was apologising for his atrocious behaviour." Sherlock raises his eyebrow at me, his face full of suspicion. "Fine," I confess, "He wanted to apologise for your behaviour but I told him off and made him apologise for his behaviour. He started it."

Sherlock smirks his proud smirk and a strange warm glow in my stomach follows it. I rub my head on his bony shoulder like a cat. I'd purr for him if it were humanly possible.

The cab driver takes as least five wrong turns on the way back to the flat and even I agree that the ride was tedious. I fumble for the keys at the door and I've barely entered the flat when my phone rings in my coat pocket. I answer it in the doorway.

"Greg," I sigh. "What now?"

A long string of words follows which I only half listen to. I repeat key words back to Sherlock, "Another woman… possibly 23 to 25 years of age… in a dumpster off Hayes Place."

"No need for a cab then," I hear Sherlock mutter.

"See you there," I hang up and turn my gaze to Sherlock. He bounds around the lounge room like a playful kitten. "Stop being so happy," he instantly reacts to this as if I were joking and laughs if off before resuming his glee. "Sherlock, I'm being serious. These are murders, innocent women and girls are dead all over the world, this is not a happy case."

The smile falls from his face, "But mystery, John! Don't you feel it? Doesn't it intrigue you?"

"Yes but it doesn't make me happy."

His eyes swell with disbelief and hurt, "I thought you liked solving crimes with me?"

I huff. Dealing with Sherlock is like dealing with a self-obsessed toddler who has no capacity for either empathy or sympathy. I open my mouth to object to his statement but I catch my tongue and end up sighing, "Let's just get to the scene, okay?"

The walk to Hayes Place couldn't be more than a 10 minute walk at a slow pace but by the time Lestrade is in sight my leg is throbbing to the point where I have developed a limp again. I know Sherlock has glanced down at me and seen my struggle but he hasn't offered any assistance to me.

"Hello," I puff at Lestrade when we finally reach him.

"That limp still got you?" Lestrade asks, nodding in reply to my greeting.

"It may be psychosomatic but it sure as hell hurts," I laugh. As I speak I hear Sherlock grumble about our improper use of language.

"The body?" He commands impatiently.

"Ah yes!" He leads us to the dumpster in which she was found, "She was reported to be missing from about half an hour west of here where she was house sitting for a friend. The friend returned but found no house sitter and had a house in ruin."

"Where is the friend now?"

"We notified her and she was to meet us at the office at 12."

Sherlock's face glimmers with a smile, "Finally somebody is learning!"

Lestrade holds up the police tape into the small alley between houses where a grimy looking dumpster sits. Sherlock flings himself over the edge of the bin and lands with a thud on the metal base. "This was empty when she was found, I hope," he calls, kneeling beside her body. She's older than the rest and in her late 40's, I guess from a glance.

Lestrade and I reach the edge and lean over to view the body, "She's only been dumped quite recently, overnight I should guess. She was found by a senior women early this morning when she brought down a bag of rubbish and saw her." He hands me a piece of paper, a quick glance tells me that it's a list of names. 'Witness' is written next the elderly woman's name.

"Nobody heard her being thrown in here?"

"We haven't had time to interview everybody, I'll get some men on it now-"

Sherlock interrupts him before Greg has time to choose officers, "John can do it. He's the only one I trust for this task. Send him up with an officer to make him look official," he waves us away as he whips out his magnifying glass.

When we get out of earshot, Greg suspiciously asks, "What have you done to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Five days ago he would have never let anyone even you do a job like this and that's saying something because he loves you."

"What?" I blurt.

Lestrade's eyes widen a little with surprise, "I meant loves you because you're the only one who doesn't tell him to piss off every time he speaks."

"Oh," I say awkwardly, "Go on…"

"All I'm saying is that you must have done something incredibly agreeable with Sherlock because he trusts you with questioning people and asking them the right questions. I've worked with Sherlock for years and he's never asked me to do anything but get him coffees."

"Oh… I-I see," I feel myself blushing from almost falling out of the closet and breaking my neck on the way out.

There's a long pause while the two of us stand, hands in pockets, waiting for the other to speak first.

"Well, I better-" Greg finally announces.

"Yeah," I say turning swiftly and making my first swift steps in the opposite direction.

"Oh John! I forgot, I can't let you investigate by yourself. I need to send someone up with you." I turn back to him and wait for him to wave over a young officer. He takes a second to debrief the officer on his job before he turns back to me. "This is Danny, he's the quietest of the lot."

I nod at Greg and lead Danny aside. "I haven't seen you around much."

"I'm new here, sir," He stutters.

"Ah," I speedily organise my thoughts before I try speak to him again. "Have you ever done interviews or investigations?"

He shakes his head shyly, "No, sir."

In the back of my mind I know that I should correct him and command him to call me by name but the greater part of my mind likes being treated like I'm back in the army. "Just leave the talking to me and listen carefully to what the witness and I say. I'd like you to scribe for me."

He nods and I point us in the direction of the set of apartments directly to the left of the alleyway. "Our first witness is an elderly lady who located the body just this morning. Her name is Abigail Rogers and she lives on the second floor."

He nods and we set off. I knock on Mrs Rogers door three times before she appears at her door wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. "Mrs Rogers-"

"Miss," She corrects, "I never married."

I clear my throat and begin again, "Miss Rogers-"

"Call me Abigail," She interrupts again.

"Abigail," I say with more force. Her eyes widen but she doesn't breathe a word. "I've come here to ask you about the events of this morning."

"I didn't do this, if that's what you're thinking!"

I sigh heavily, "I know you didn't, I just want to ask you some questions."

"How do you know I haven't done it if you haven't asked the questions yet?"

I rake my fingers down my cheek, "I don't. Look, will you answer my questions or not?"

"Yes I will."

"Now you found the body this morning, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you move anything when you found her?"

"Just the lid of the bin."

"Good, good. Are you getting this down Danny?" I check.

"Yes, sir."

I turn back to Abigail. "Now, last night, did you notice anything unusual? Any loud noises? Any strange people lurking around?"

"I slept all night with me sleeping pills; they're really quite good, you can go the whole night without even stirring. Here I'll write down the name of them."

I massage my eyes, "That won't be necessary." I suddenly notice why Sherlock never has any patience with witnesses and I start to reconsider my technique. "Miss Rogers, sit down or I will have to suspect that your reluctance to answer my questions are attempts to hide vital evidence from our investigation!"

She sits obediently but I don't calm myself. "Were there any disturbances last night?"

"There were a group of men making a racket in the upstairs apartment."

"Do you recognise the girl at all from anywhere?"

She simply shakes her head. I quickly thank her and lead Danny out of the apartment.

I lean against the wall in the hallway to catch my breath after losing my temper at an elderly woman. "Now I know my Sherlock snaps at the people he interviews," I laugh light heartedly, trying to release the tension between Danny and me. I look up to see him staring disapprovingly at me. "Look son, sometimes you have to be a little rough with people who are utterly unhelpful."

He nods.

"You are a quite one. Sherlock would like you. Although, now that I think about it, I don't want to scare you away from this job entirely." I sigh when he doesn't reply, "Let's go upstairs."


	15. Upstairs

The apartment just above the old woman's apartment seemed recently used. I find the door slightly ajar. A light breeze emits from within the apartment, perhaps through a window left open by the young woman who lived in the apartment; whatever the daft is, my natural instincts tell me that I should ready my gun.

I drag the pistol from underneath my belt. Danny's quiet voice comes from behind me, "Are you licensed to carry that, sir?"

I don't answer his question directly but I answer him with silence and as I slip in the open door, gun in hand, with a slight creek, I say, "I advise you to do the same."

The apartment is dark, the black curtains drawn across the windows have created the illusion that we have walked into night time. The only light comes from the crack beneath a door in the far corner. I assume it to be a bathroom or bedroom.

I bring my gun up to my cheek, readying my reflexes as I slip further into the apartment. I hear a click from behind me and glance back briefly to see Danny clicking off his radio. "Wise choice," I mouth towards him.

As I venture further into the large apartment I see a struggle. Magazines strewn over the floor and covered in broken glass which must have been pushed off the coffee table with them. I touch the area softly and find it damp with a pungent smelling wine. "Think like Sherlock," I whisper ever so quietly to myself. I edge closer to the light while observing the struggle; smashed photos and frames, a knocked over chair and evidence of more than one person living in the apartment, no more than three, however.

As I slide around the apartment I feel more and more obliged to call for Sherlock. He once told me that I was the most intelligent person he'd met outside of his family because I can observe and read the evidence but he's never hesitated to tell me that I'm hopeless compared to him. I'm well out of my depth.

I reach the door and flick my hand to Danny, hoping that he understands the hand signs we used in the army. He readies his gun and moves to one side of the door, I stand on the other, closet to the handle. I look to Danny and he nods back, I hope, understanding my plan. I raise my left hand slowly and place it gently on the handle of the door, keeping my right hand steady and ready to shoot.

I glance over to Danny again who shifts slightly and readies himself again. In one swift movement I turn the handle and kick open the door with the pistol pointed into the room around the door frame, Danny by my side copying me exactly. I assess the danger. "Civilian," my sub-conscious man of the military says before my conscious self can assess the situation.

Slowly the scene floats into my consciousness and a young man, the same age as the women appears crouching, cowering and bleeding in the bottom of the shower. I scan the room, blood stains the wall, panicked hand prints and scattered bottles. I try as hard as I can but I can't remember any blood stains on the girl's clothes.

I still don't lower my pistol as I slide aver to the man. Now that I'm closer to him, I see that his body is tarnished with dark bruises.

"Search the rest of the apartment," I call to Danny, forgetting that he's inexperienced, and tend to the man. He seems harmless but I've had my fair share of experiences with 'harmless' civilians turning out to be enemies in disguise, so my gun hand remains steady. "Can you hear me?"

He only barely whimpers but any response is a response.

"Look, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm with the police, we want to help. We want to find out what has happened here. But first we need to get you back into some sort of health," I almost croon.

The man whimpers again and his arms relax and fall from a stiff shield over his face. I see his eyes, one bloodshot and black and the other bruised, but he doesn't look up at my face. He watches the gun warily. After a hesitant moment I lower it but I do not drop my guard and it's a good thing too because as soon as my pistol drops to the floor a great thud and a crash from behind us. "Stay here," I command.

I slip from the bathroom again and survey the darkness to find a dark shadow of a human body writing on the ground. I rush towards the source of the sound, knowing instantly who it is. My hand wraps its way around Danny's own damp, grasping hand. His breathing is rugged, a sound I know all too well. I drop to the ground by his body, pistol before me pointing into the bedroom.

"What happened, soldier?" My tongue slips.

"There's something in there," His breathe shudders.

I have no idea what to expect within the room but as I roll my body towards the still open door, I accept whatever fate may lie before me.

I pass from floorboards to carpet, messily strewn clothes and a darkness that consumes all that it touches. I am left with simply my hearing and my touch to navigate my way towards the danger.

Something moves to my left ever so slightly and my gun clicks towards it. A heavy footstep and I fire a shot but it doesn't collide with the target. I hear the creeks moving around the room, I squint into the darkness. They used to train us in pitch black darkness just in case we were caught off guard in the darkness. I was just a doctor, far behind the actual fighting for most of my time, but I had been on regular scouts. I had only been in the midst of battle in catastrophic times. No matter what we always had night vision. Now I feel lost in the darkness and vulnerable when before I had excelled in training with overwhelming confidence.

I try to relax my mind, clear it of everything but my surroundings but I have almost completely lost the ability to do so. I find my muscles stiff and I am unable to inch further into the room, not that it would be a wise move in my situation.

Suddenly there is a rustle from right above me and my gun flies from my hands. I lay as still as possible but somewhere deep inside I know that the culprit is perfectly capable of seeing me in the dark.

A sudden wash of white light floods the room and I struggle to gain my vision in the new brightness. I gaze forward into a pair of heavy lace up boots. I know what stands above me as soon as I notice the smear of white paint on the laces; but no matter how much I ready myself for what I am about to see, nothing could ever prepare me for what I see.

He stands before me, towering over me with his muscular body. His face is painted with a black and white shape and if I were in any other situation I would laugh at how he looked to be a fan of Kiss; but this is my situation, and it is not an entertaining one. All of this I expected, but I never expected him to be smiling. His smile is wide, with straight teeth, but it says "I've expected you."

And this is all confirmed when he grabs my collar and lifts me up to his face. I choke violently as a deep throaty chuckle emits from him. "Look what we've caught, Dan."

"A rat," a bitter voice spits. It's a young voice, seemingly innocent and I know exactly who it is. My stomach twists terribly. The man drops me to the floor and I collapse to my knees unwillingly. I don't dare turn my head but my senses tell me that there is a gun pointed steadily at my head.

I grasp at my throat, gasping for oxygen but before I have time to regain my breath the man is giving Danny orders, "Go and make a clear path so we can get him out of here. We don't want them on our tail."

"Of course," Danny says with a sly smirk, losing all the innocence he once had but when I think about it, it was all a game wasn't it? It was never real; he was never the quiet and polite young officer.

"You'll draw attention," I stall while I try to devise an escape plan.

"You underestimate what we have going on here," he unzips his jacket and presses out his chest to highlight the ridiculously obvious Kiss shirt beneath. "Usually we wouldn't take such precautions but when you have Sherlock Holmes on the case, you have to go to extra measures." He laughs cynically.

I struggle to organise my thoughts to produce a relevant response but by the time I have invented one the man as gagging me with a soft piece of cotton.

"You don't need to speak anymore," He says pulling it brutally tight and tying it behind my head.

My body tries to struggle and fight back. I kick out and grasp at the map and I soon learn that my actions have consequences because I am not the one in control here. The man grabs me by the collar again, lifting me easily off the floor. The smile is all but gone from his face; in fact, it has grown to at least double its size. "I was hoping you'd do that sooner or later."

He throws me to the ground with such a force that all the wind rushes from my lungs and I find myself heaving for breath through the gag with a terrible rasping noise. My eyes catch up with my movement just in time to see another cloth as he presses it to my mouth.

The revolting smell of chemicals fills my nose and burns as I helplessly breathe it in as my body urgently searches for oxygen. I know the smell but as I attempt to recall memories, my brain fails me. It sends back muddled phrases and irrelevant data until my consciousness subsides and my muscles relax. I fall into the depths on my unconscious being and the darkness it brings forth.

I know that when I wake I will not be lying on the floor of this apartment. But I know I will wake because I'm just the bait, aren't I? They need me alive until they get Sherlock in their grasp and then I'm useless to them. But I know too much, don't I? We both do.


	16. In the Dark

"Sherlock!" I'm screaming his name before I even manage to open my heavy eyes. I'm standing but not on my own for my arms are tautly tied above my head preventing me from sinking to the floor. I swing back slightly as I wake and find that I am not supported at all by anything other than the ropes around my wrists.

"He's not here lover boy," a man's voice sounds. It echoes about the room so that I can't tell exactly where he is standing.

"Lover boy? I'm not a lover boy."

"Sure," the man murmurs sarcastically.

I follow the echoes around the room as soon as my eyes manage to flutter open. My eyes flick frantically around the space back find nothing but a blinding darkness. I start to put together the pieces; it's natural for the human mind to exaggerate the events that occur while the human is terrified. The stocky man who I encountered in the apartment might not be as stocky and strong as I perceived him to be but my aching back and strained neck beg to differ.

However, I am certain that the male that talks to me from the darkness here is a different man to the one who delivered me here.

"Who are you?" I ask, not expecting a straight answer but hoping to hear the voice.

It laughs, "You don't honestly think that we'll tell you?" I hear the echoes of a foot step and the voice travels closer. "You already know too much," The voice suddenly sounds to my left.

My reflexes betray me and I jump. The man laughs, I feel him walk a complete circle around me before he leaves me for the other end of the room.

"Speaking of you and your lover boy, where is he? I would have expected him long ago."

A knot catches sharply in my throat. What evidence does Sherlock have that would lead him to here? Unless they've laid out a set of clues for him. But of course they have. It's the point. A whimper escapes my lips.

"Oh now now, John. He doesn't really love you but you already knew that. You just hoped." He pauses for a long while, "How about we shed some light on the situation?"

Before I can figure out what he means, the space around me floods with a carefully positioned spotlight. A light so bright that I can see nothing but the circle that produces it even after blinking away from it frantically.

"Ahh! Much better, I can see your face now. I told them not to damage it but accidents happen." I try not to react but in my intrigue I screw up my face to find the damage. I feel what I judge to be a gash across my nose. "I was looking at you before and noticed a scar on your shoulder. You were shot?"

I don't answer.

"Of course. I understand, it's hard to talk about it," he feigns sympathy.

I squint into the area where I estimate him to be but find nothing but darkness.

"Is he usually this late?"

I don't answer. Silence follows.

I stand in dull pain and in silence for minutes before anything happens at all. And that 'anything' is a door opening behind me. I can't turn myself enough to see who opened the door but I do know that they are a messenger because the only words that leave his lips are, "He's here."

"Bring him in," My captor commands and the messenger leaves.

He heart sinks when I hear the voice that I both craved and dreaded to hear again. He protests loudly and I hear is struggle but I do not hear anything uttered from whoever is delivering him here. I snap my eyes shut. "It's a dream, it's a dream, it's a dream," I chant.

"It's not," Sherlock huffs, the door slamming behind him. "You can untie me now," there is a pause before he yells again, "You tied them in front of me? If you want me to stop me from fighting back you could have at least tied my hands properly." I hear him pacing freely, "Idiots," he murmurs under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Sherlock," I warn.

"No, it's quit alright. He is the one with the lack of intelligence here," my captor announces from the dark.

"What?" Sherlock shouts, outraged. He strides over towards where the voice came from but once again, it's a trap. These people have everything planned out. From our captures to our fates and everything in between; they've got it planned.

Sherlock's arrogance is his downfall. In defending his own pride, he falls right into our captor's arms and finds himself tied, like me, to the roof with a click of a karabiner.

"This is precisely why, Mr Holmes," I can hear the smirk in his voice as he defeats even Sherlock Holmes.

I look up to Sherlock's pale and tired face. I see the bags under his eyes that are a trademark of his usual sleeping habits but as of late he's been sleeping too much to receive these without immense stress. I try to read his face.

"I got captured on purpose you know," he says to me, softly.

"Should I leave the two of you alone?" Our captor teases. He slaps his hands together, breaking the eye contact that Sherlock and I have established. "Now, to the fun part."

"Sherlock?" I murmur nervously.

"Mr Holmes, you have proved to be a great nuisance to the project."

"Dissecting women to transport illegal substances and items," Sherlock adds.

"Oh! You still don't know," the man laughs.

"I do, actually." He protests.

"Tell me," then he steps into the light where I can see him for the first time.

I look him up and down a couple of times; he's skinny, old and frail looking, a high contrast to his strong voice but he wears a smile that seems to be a trademark of this business. It's a smile that sends convulsive shivers up and down my spine.

"Tell me," he says with a little more firmness, his smile broadening.

Sherlock bites his lip and lets it roll through his teeth before he raises his gaze to meet mine. His eyes are wet but they do not dare shed a tear. "Sorry," he mouths.

"Well then," our captor says, "If you won't speak, then we'll have to make you." He strides across the room to what I assume to be a table. I hear the clinking of metal before he turns back to us holing a dagger, "This is how we open up our women before was insert the items, Mr Holmes." He twirls the dagger around on the tip of his finger, drawing a droplet of blood. He raises his hand and traces the blood across Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock braces for the blow of the knife but our captor speaks, "Oh, we've been watching you, solving the case alongside you. We've been in your home, we've been in your own mind. We know exactly how to get this information out of you." His body still stands close to Sherlock, almost pressing his chest to Sherlock's side, but his face turns, with a wild smirk and a glint in his eye, to me. "You'll want to tell us everything or I'll use your dearest John as packing foam."

"Don't!" Sherlock shouts, thrashing in his chains, trying to kick our captor.

"Let's see what you know, shall we?"

He takes the dagger and traces it lightly around my stomach. I dare not flinch because I know that if I do, he will surely kill me. The dagger traces slowly up my neck and onto my cheeks. I hear Sherlock struggling again in anger but it seems so far away now. All I see, all that exists, is the dagger, the one who's holding it and me. It slashes through my cheek in one sharp movement. I don't close my eyes, I can't give him the satisfaction; instead I stare into Sherlock's eyes as they stare in horror at my face.

"What do you know?" Our captor says calmly as if he hadn't just cut me open.

Sherlock replies with the same thrashing and the man instantly turns back to me. "I don't think he loves you. I think he enjoys your pain more than anyone else. I think he hates you from the bottom of his heart." A rage swells up inside me, a rage unlike any that I've ever felt before, but my bound feet and hands are useless to me and I settle with spitting a wad of saliva onto the man's face. Wrong move. The dagger drags across my stomach unbearably slowly.

"I am not confessing to you what I know! There are women in danger. Women and girls," Sherlock screams.

"Oh, so you do know something," our captor says with delight.

Everything from that point moves in an incredible slow motion. The dagger traces my gunshot wound, over the lumps and bumps on both sides of my shoulder. Our captor says something to Sherlock but I do not hear a thing, I just focus on the glimmer of the dagger. I hear yelling in the far off distance, probably from Sherlock, and this is all about his pride isn't it? He never came here to save me; he came here to flaunt his brains and strut around with his arrogance until he shut the place down from the inside. I can imagine it now. He figures out the solution to a case and refuses to tell anybody else the answer and tried to resolve it himself, forgetting the existence of anyone else in the world but himself. For someone renowned for his genius, he's an idiot. He didn't come to save me, he came for himself.

The dagger digs into my shoulder, through the flesh that was once toughened by a scar. I feel myself scream aloud but I cannot hear a thing but the pump of my blood through my veins and out of my body. I feel the knife again several times before the lights go out. At first I think that I have simply passed out but as I fall to the floor I know that I've been released.


	17. Survival

The smell of medical chemicals fill my nose and my eyes flutter gently open to a stark white room. There's a low murmuring from people outside in the hallways and the occasional beep of a machine by my side as it monitors my heart rate laxly.

I raise my left arm and gaze as the needle that provides me sustenance, flexing my hand to relieve its stiffness. I raise myself a little on the pillows only to notice something that I did not expect. In the chair beside me, slouching onto my bed and fast asleep is a messy haired Sherlock. With His face dirty and tear blemished.

I move my right hand from where it rests on my stomach and graze my fingertips lightly through his hair and over his still blood stained cheek. His eyes flicker under their lids, deep within a dream. I remove my hand from his curls and his eyes snap open, staring up at me.

He jumps backwards as if I've just attacked him and stutters, "I'll get a nurse," before making a swift exit.

The nurse drawls on for what seems like hours only to tell me that I lost a lot of blood, that they saw it best to keep me asleep for a couple of days while my body strengthened and that I was able to go home this afternoon. All this time I stare at Sherlock intently while he watches his feet, head hung low.

He takes a separate cab home to me, avoiding me thoroughly until we get to the apartment and have locked the door behind us. This is when I confront him.

"Sherlock," I say, and that's all of the confrontation he needs because he takes an unsteady step towards me and drops to his knees, face already red.

"John please forgive me, I never should have let you do the interviews alone, something inside me told me that you were in danger and I ignored it."

I don't say anything

"I ignored it," he repeats,

"I don't blame you for that," I say in monotone

"You don't?" he marvels at me with eyes full of hope.

"No, I blame you for once again not coming to save me but instead coming to my location to flaunt your brilliance," I emphasize 'brilliance' with sarcasm and it hits him right in his heart.

He grasps urgently at the bottom of my shirt, grabbing handfuls of the material and bringing it close to his face.

I look down on him, for once towering over him in both height and power.

"Say something," he gasps desperately, I can hear the tears swelling at the back of his throat.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? Forgive you for putting my life in danger again because you were too proud to acknowledge anybody else's existence but your own? Because I can't forgive that, not again. You put me and my friends in danger. You always fret about how you never have friends, it's because you've screwed every one of them over far too many times and they've stopped trusting you. And you know what? I don't trust you either. Not anymore. I stopped trusting you the moment you let me get tortured."

"I'm sorry! Let me explain," he cries, his voice crackling.

"I'm done with your excuses. Go off and solve the case, I don't want you around me."

"I gave the case to Mycroft, he came late, and he got us both out of there. I was supposed to be the decoy but I failed and got the both of us almost killed."

My eyes widen, "You gave your case to your brother?"

"I wanted you to be safe. I waited by your bed while you were in the hospital. I didn't eat, I tried not to sleep but I was emotionally exhausted-"

"Exhausted for what? Being a complete asshole all the time?" I spit bitterly.

"No, from being terrified of losing you. And now I am and I don't know what to do to make it right."

"How about making a sacrifice for your friends instead of being so selfish all the time?"

His arms wrap around my waist and I let him cry into my stomach until his tears dry up.

We moved back to our separate bedrooms that night and we never shared again. I learned to trust him again but he never forgave himself for that case.

* * *

"I read your recollection," my psychiatrist coos.

"And now you understand why he did it. Why he-" I choke on my words, "why he's dead."

"It's not your fault, John," She leans in closer to me.

"I told him to stop being selfish, I told him that everyone hated him and he believed me, believed it all. He jumped because of me."


End file.
